One Day
by RueforRegret
Summary: Over a quarter of a century separates single-mother Bella Swan from her hormone-riddled adolescence. Watching her teenaged daughter navigate her way through various rites of passage, Bella can't help falling prey to nostalgia. "One Day" brims with steamy reminiscences of first love and traces one woman's mid-life attempt to reclaim it. ExB, AH, mild angst, M-Rated 18 & over.
1. That Was Yesterday

**No infringement of copyright is intended. I've borrowed Stephenie Meyer's characters' names. The rest of this unbeta'd story is mine, including any errors you might find. **

* * *

**Chapter One – That Was Yesterday**

**August 20, 2012**

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"Is your phone charged?"

"Yes, Mom."

I glance at my daughter's bare shoulders. "Are you taking sunscreen?"

"I put some on when I got out of the shower."

"A hat? You should take a hat."

"Mom!"

She rolls her eyes as she brushes past me, escaping from her bathroom and slipping into the safety of her bedroom. I stand, adrift in the hallway, other motherly advice about staying hydrated, not overdoing it with the sweets and avoiding any sketchy rides percolate behind my lips. I can't even let myself contemplate sketchy guys.

Moments later when she re-emerges from her bedroom, I'm still standing in the hall like a bump on a log, as my own mother used to say. Carlie almost crashes into me, head down, her thumbs flying across her phone's miniature keyboard.

"Mallory's gonna be here any minute," she says, pulling up short in front of me. "I've gotta go."

I watch her stuff her phone into the back pocket of her tiny jean cut-offs. When did clothes become so small?

"You'll be careful?" I say, grabbing her hands. "Keep me posted on how things are going?"

"I'll try."

"You'll be texting and messaging people all day, anyway. A quick message to me now and then is all I ask. Don't make me spy on your Twitter timeline."

"Okay, I promise to text you if you promise not to be a creepy lurker," she says, looking at me from under her carefully tweezed brows.

"I solemnly promise not to be a creepy lurker."

I borrow my daughter's vernacular the way she borrows my old concert T-shirts: liberally and without permission.

"Deal. I'll text you every few hours."

"Deal."

A blaring car horn interrupts our negotiations.

"That's Mall. Gotta go."

Carlie gives me a cursory peck on the cheek, an outpouring of affection compared to what I'd normally get—a hollered "Seeya!" from the front door. Her generosity is most likely a result of my willingness to let her take this solo trip into the city. The unsupervised outing coupled with the fact that she's going from the amusement park straight to her father's house for a three-day visit has made me a bit of a basket case.

I follow her down the stairs, tell her I love her and then stand in the doorway to watch as she clambers into the back seat of Mallory Maitlin's car. Walter Maitlin, Mallory's father, is at the wheel. He waves out the window as he backs out and drives away. I breathe in and out, slowly and evenly. Then I close the front door and drop my head in my hands.

My baby's all grown up. When did this happen?

I'm fully prepared to feel sorry for myself for at least an hour before launching into household chores, but the phone rings, forcing the temporary postponement of my pity party. My voice as I answer is little more than a croak. I clear my throat and try again.

"Hello?"

"Bella? Is that you?"

"Alice?"

"Hi. Your voice sounds funny. Are you sick? Wait, you're not crying, are you? Did the ex from hell bail again?"

"No, I'm not sick. And Carlie's spending the next few days at her dad's, if you can believe it. No, I'm fine, really. Well, sort of fine. I'm glad you called."

Once more, as if she has some sort of emotional radar, my best friend has phoned me when I need her shoulder the most.

"What's going on? You don't sound okay at all."

"Oh, it's nothing, really." I wander into the family room and drop onto the couch, straightening cushions as I recline. "Carlie's just left for the Exhibition with one of her friends. First time going into the city alone. I'm having a bit of a meltdown. She walked out the door two minutes ago. I probably need a few minutes to process. I'll be fine."

"Aw, you poor thing. Jasper and I are freaking out about Audrey coming home from school this year instead of going to the sitter's, so trust me, I get where you're coming from. So the girl Carlie's heading to the city with—she a decent kid?"

"Mallory? She's okay. She seems to have a good head on her shoulders. I hope they'll watch out for each other."

"I'm sure everything will be fine. I'd say 'don't worry,' but I know I'd be wasting my breath."

"Very true." I smile despite my rising anxiety.

"God, the Exhibition, eh?"

I hear the nostalgic tone in Alice's voice and right away I know what she's thinking about.

"Don't go there, Alice. I'm sure that's what's got me so keyed up."

"What, the fact that we were such rebels? You know exactly what your sixteen-year-old daughter might be capable of?"

"Not helping, Alice." I sigh and cover my eyes with my hand.

"Oh, come on, Bella. We were perfectly harmless. Just a couple of kids stretching our wings. She'll go on a few rides, eat way too much junk food and ogle a few guys. No harm done."

"If Carlie even thinks of doing _half _the stuff we did, I'll break both of her kneecaps."

Alice laughs, but I can't bring myself to join her. When I think of the summer of 1984, I might summon up a sad smile, but I rarely laugh.

Regret doesn't often incite laughter.

X-X-X

After we've hung up, I feel a bit better. I try to tell myself Carlie will be fine. I've raised her well and she's a good kid. Like that woman on TV keeps reminding us, we can't keep our kids in bubble wrap. I should be proud that Carlie isn't afraid to navigate the world.

Talking to Alice about our summer escapades at the Exhibition has stirred up my own memories, though. Spurred on by our reminiscences, I abandon the dishes in the sink and ignore the two baskets of laundry waiting to be folded. Instead, I find myself in the basement crawlspace, wading through boxes .

It doesn't take me long to find what I'm looking for. Jammed behind the enormous plastic tub teeming with Carlie's old dress-up costumes and underneath a garbage bag full of discarded stuffed animals, there's a battered box. It's not identified in any way with exterior markings, but I've carried this box around with me from house to house for the last twenty-five years. I haven't cracked it open for at least a decade, but I know exactly what's inside. I maneuver it out of the cramped space, blow the layer of dust from the top and carry it upstairs, stopping at the top step to contemplate where I'll put it.

I have the whole day to indulge my misery. Heck, I have three days! I might as well wallow in the comfort of my living room. I drop the box on the coffee table and stare at it for a minute. I need some mood music. After leafing through my CD collection, I settle on Foreigner's _Agent Provocateur_. I'm not messing around here. This will be some serious wallowing. I might even go as far as to say it will be _epic_.

I can almost see Carlie rolling her eyes at me.

When I peel back the dried tape and open the flaps of the box, the surge of nostalgia is so powerful, my stomach flips over and I have to sit back on the couch to regroup. By the time Lou Gramm has started singing "That was Yesterday," I'm leaning forward, eagerly rifling through the contents of the box.

Yearbooks stacked on top give way to class pictures. Underneath the photos is a pile of clipped together notes, messages exchanged with friends while I should have been paying attention in class. Next are collated report cards and certificates of merit, rewards for participation in various activities. Then, at the bottom, lies a little stuffed bear—a midway prize—and tucked in its embrace, a faded envelope. This is what I'd been looking for.

I sit the bear on my lap and pull the envelope free, quickly scanning the contents. Inside there are a handful of dried rose petals, several ticket stubs to the Canadian National Exhibition, a gum wrapper, a movie ticket receipt, and a torn off flap from a cigarette pack with a phone number hastily scribbled across it. Then, of course, there's the photo, one in which I'm not even the focal point, but there all the same. I'm in the background, staring up at a handsome young man whose hand rests lightly on my hip.

These are the souvenirs of the summer of 1984. This is all that remains.

Unless you count the memories.

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**Thanks for stopping by to give my story a chance. Much appreciated!**

**R**


	2. The Ex

** Chapter 2 – The Ex**

**August 20, 1984**

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It all started on a hot August day, in the murky underbelly of Toronto—Union Station. I was to meet my best friend outside the washrooms at two o'clock so we could get ready for an afternoon at the Canadian National Exhibition. I was ten minutes early. She was ten minutes late. By the time she arrived, I was bouncing off the walls.

"There you are! Man, what took you so long, Alice?"

I dragged her to the train station's washroom.

"Sorry. My mom was being a pain in the ass. I had to clean my room _and_ go through my back-to-school clothes before she'd let me out. She's so annoying."

I watched her drop her backpack on the bathroom counter and tip the contents out.

"Here," she said, handing me a pair of jeans. "I hope my sister didn't mess them up. Try them on."

I retreated to a bathroom stall and hung the jeans on the hook inside. Peeling off my parentally-approved but horribly unfashionable K-Mart denims and draping them over the door, I said a quick prayer as I plucked the hand-me-down jeans off the metal peg.

"Please fit," I whispered, sliding my feet in and pulling the jeans up my legs.

"How are they?" Alice asked.

I made various unattractive grunting noises as I shimmied my hips and jumped up and down, hoping gravity would provide some assistance. Narrowly missing a nosedive into the toilet, I finally cajoled the stiff fabric up and over my hips.

"Man, oh man, they're tight. How much did your sister take them in?"

"About an inch on each leg. Anyway, they're supposed to be tight. Come out. I want to see."

"Hang on. I can't get them done up."

I yanked at the zipper, trying not to slice my finger open in the process.

"My sister uses a coat hanger when her pants are too tight," Alice explained. "And she lies on her bed. That helps, too."

"Don't suppose you have either of those items kicking around?"

"Uh, no."

I leaned against the wall of the stall and sucked in my stomach as hard as I could. Success at last. I slipped my shoes back on and opened the door. Looking down at myself balefully, I croaked out the unfortunate truth. "I can't breathe."

Alice peeked at my rear end. "Bella, when your ass looks that good, who cares about breathing? Come here."

I rolled up my discarded jeans and jammed them into my bag as I hiked up one leg and then the other, trying to work in the fabric.

"Good idea," Alice observed knowingly. "They'll stretch out as you wear them. So did you bring the makeup you were telling me about?"

"Uh huh."

I retrieved the cosmetic bag from the bottom of my backpack and spilled assorted tubes, compacts and brushes onto the counter.

"Wow. Are you sure your mom won't miss this stuff?" she asked, picking up and inspecting each item with interest.

"My mom has so much makeup she doesn't use. There's no way she can remember everything."

"Cool. Hey, blue mascara."

We worked our way through the process of applying makeup, neither of us an expert, but both well-versed in the art of experimentation.

"Your hair looks great," I said, watching Alice apply dark blue eyeliner to her top lids. "I can't wait to get mine layered and feathered. I'm so sick of looking like Marsha Brady."

"You're still planning to cut it on your birthday?"

"Yep. Twenty-four days."

"I think you should go and get it cut tomorrow. What's the worst that could happen?"

"My mother could ground me for a month. I don't want to be grounded on my sixteenth birthday, Alice."

"Yeah," Alice conceded. "That would reek. Your mom needs to mellow out."

I shrugged, rolling my eyes at my reflection. I wasn't holding my breath when it came to my mother loosening up. Both Alice and I were products of strict mothers with firmly held _not-until-you're-sixteen _philosophies about makeup, dating and anything else that might generally be construed as "fun." My mother was a lot more uptight about my wardrobe than Alice's parents, though. I guess Alice's older sister wore her folks down a bit, a fact from which my best friend benefited. I had no such older sibling to help pave the way.

When I look back now, I can't help shaking my head. I had no concept of how much freedom we actually had, taking for granted our parents' laissez-faire attitudes to us roaming Toronto, monthly TTC subway passes in hand. As long as we were home by ten (before which time we'd have scrubbed off the make-up and I'd have changed my clothes, of course), we were golden.

That summer, slathering on makeup and adjusting our wardrobes in random washrooms around the city became par for the course for me and Alice, as did arriving home at 9:55 every night. On this particular day in late August, we were heading to the Canadian National Exhibition to spend the day scouting out cute boys. Therefore, tight jeans were an absolute necessity. My mother would have barred the door if I'd tried to get out of the house wearing the jeans I ended up pairing with my Duran Duran T-shirt that day, but she would have shrieked bloody murder if she'd seen what I did next.

After Alice and I stowed our backpacks in the commuter lockers at Union Station, we pooled together our change and bought a pack of twenty smokes from the station's cigarette vending machine. We'd raided her parents' liquor cabinet the week before, creating a strange booze brew—a mixture which had burned going down _and_ coming up. Cigarettes were the final frontier.

Well, that's not true. Finding a cute guy to make out with was the _real_ final frontier. But you couldn't buy a cute guy from a vending machine. We were pragmatic rebels.

X-X-X

In the 1980s, going to the Canadian National Exhibition was one of the highlights of the summer, a temporary distraction from the reality that fall was fast approaching and the return to school was just around the corner. The Exhibition, or the Ex as it was more commonly known, was typical of most summer fairs. It was hot, smelly and noisy, full of the commotion of kids running everywhere and parents trying to keep up. The midway was loud and brightly lit, and the pathways between rides lined with concessions and alleys of arcades. Along the way, barkers shouted from inside their booths, encouraging passersby to part with a few dollars in exchange for some crappy stuffed toy.

Alice and I weren't interested in the games. We were there for the rides—and the guys. Armed with our sheets of tickets, we bounced from Ferris wheel to roller coaster and hit up everything in between, spending the time in the often long line-ups sizing up the boys who were lined up around us.

Our whispered conversations would often go something like this:

"Bella, that guy is staring at your ass! I told you those jeans were perfect."

"He's not staring at my ass. He's staring into space. My ass just got in the way."

"You're such a loser. He's hypnotized by your ass. He can't look away."

We'd burst into laughter, and then continue to giggle and gossip until we'd reached the front of the line and climbed aboard whatever ride awaited us. Then we would scream and laugh throughout the whole ride, after which we would proceed to the next winding line-up where the process would start again.

We were standing in line for the Polar Express, trying to calculate how many times we'd have to watch the ride load and unload before it was our turn to clamber aboard, when I noticed him. The tall, brown-haired guy, leaning against the railing, taking the last few puffs of a cigarette, and idly playing air guitar as he waited for the ride to end. Occasionally he would survey the scene before him, smirking as he watched riders getting whipped up into a frenzy. While patrons were spun faster and faster on the circular track at G-force speeds, the operator in the nearby booth gradually turned up the music, until the sounds of Ozzy Osbourne's _Crazy Train_ were competing with the kids' screams.

"Do you wanna go faster?" the carnie in the booth shouted.

A chorus of hysterical screams greeted his question, and the ride reached a crescendo. The tall boy crossed his arms and laughed.

"Man, he's so cute," I whispered, gazing over Alice's head.

She turned, trying to follow my gaze.

"Ew," she grimaced, looking inside the booth. "His hair is so greasy. Does he even have all his teeth?"

"Not him. _Him_," I corrected her, bobbing my head at the cute guy, who was now drumming his hands against his thighs as he and his carnie buddy exchanged an exultant smile in the midst of the screams.

"Oh," Alice said, standing on her toes and adjusting her gaze. "_Him_." She pushed herself up onto the metal barricade, giving him the benefit of her full attention. "Yeah. Okay. I'll give you that one. Really cute. Love his hair. Wish he'd turn around so I could check out his…_oh_."

I watched as he seemed to obey her whispered request, turning around and flicking his cigarette butt over the railing, and giving us a perfect view of his rear end in a pair of form fitting jeans.

"Oh my," Alice said.

"Amazing," I agreed.

Inching forwards along the maze of barricades that led to the front of the line, we unabashedly ogled him. Seemed his job was to do the belt-checking duties as the ride operator collected tickets. Then the operator would return to the booth and the cute boy would retreat to the railing.

"He's wearing a Floyd t-shirt," Alice pointed out. "Bet he smokes pot."

"You think?"

"Oh yeah. I wonder if he's in a band. He's all about the air bass."

Alice was right. His imaginary instrument wasn't a guitar, after all. It was a bass, the thumb of his right hand beating a steady rhythm against the invisible strings which seemed to run across the pocket of his jeans. Watching him tap his hip like that gave me shivers from head to toe.

"He's so gorgeous."

Alice grinned up at me. "You've got the hots for a carnie."

I stuck my tongue out at her, refusing to let her observation ruin my momentary infatuation. I counted out the people in front of us in line.

"We're next for sure."

Alice jumped around excitedly, while I watched the object of my adolescent desire stand back to let the crowd of dizzy and euphoric riders make their way to the exit gate. Then the greasy-haired ride operator was opening the gate and collecting tickets, directing us around to the right. I grabbed Alice's hand and we ran shrieking up the ramp, clambering into a car and settling in.

"Good thing we didn't get one of those candy apples," Alice said. "I'd barf for sure."

She made puking sounds in my ear and I shoved at her arm, laughing, but then we were both stunned into silence as the cute boy leaned over and instead of locking the bar into place, he popped it open.

"Ladies, you should really switch sides."

Alice and I looked at each other in confusion.

"Centrifugal force," he explained, looking at me pointedly with his gorgeous green eyes. "You're a lot taller than she is. It makes more sense for you to be on the inside."

"Oh. Right."

I stood up and looked down at his outstretched right hand. I really didn't need his help, but there was no way I was passing up an opportunity to touch him. I slipped my fingers over his, climbed over Alice's legs and sat down. His hand was back at his side before I had a chance to analyze the sensation of his touch.

"Enjoy your ride," he said, pushing the bar down and then giving it a quick jiggle.

As he moved to the car in front of us, Alice leaned over to hiss in my ear.

"He held your hand."

"He wasn't _holding_ my hand, hose bag. He was _helping_ me."

Alice laughed and practiced squashing me against the side of the car. Moments later, the squashing was legitimate. The ride started tamely enough, but was soon spinning us backwards in ever-quickening circles. As the music blared, we joined in with the deafening screams of our fellow riders. Alice tried to hold on to the bar, but the force was too much to battle against, and she ended up mashed against my side.

When the carnie in the booth took to his microphone, asking if we wanted to go faster, Alice shrieked in my ear. When he said, "Let me hear you scream!" she shrieked louder. All I could do was scream right along with her and try not to throw up.

It was the most fun ever.

X-X-X

We left that ride with legs wobbling, gasping for breath and holding each other's arms as we tripped towards the exit ramp.

"Oh my God, Alice. I can't breathe. I swear to God, that ride and these jeans do _not_ go well together."

Alice ignored my complaints, singing along with Ozzy at the top of her lungs. I elbowed her as we neared the swinging gate that would take us back down into the midway. The boy—my new crush—was standing there with an unlit cigarette hanging between his lips, watching us. She took my hint and stopped singing like an outpatient on day-leave, and we managed to escape from the ride with our humility somewhat intact.

"Guys look so sexy when they smoke," she said as we traipsed down the metal stairway towards the asphalt. "Hey, that reminds me, we haven't even cracked open our pack."

She rooted around in her purse and retrieved the pack of Du Maurier cigarettes we'd purchased hours earlier. I watched as she stripped off the plastic wrapping.

"You want to have one now?" I hissed. "Here?"

"Why not?" Alice said, peeling open the pack and holding it out for me to take one.

I couldn't explain why not. I didn't want Alice to think I was a chicken. But that didn't change the fact that I was afraid to take my first puff on a cigarette with _him _right there, watching me. Alice was in her own world, already digging in a side pocket of her purse and producing a green lighter. She shook it and flicked it a couple of times.

I looked over my shoulder self-consciously. No one was paying us any attention. There was no need for me to worry about him watching me make an ass of myself. While I'd been hyper-aware of his existence since the second I saw him leaning nonchalantly against that railing, I was little more than one among thousands of girls who would cross his line of vision that day.

I placed the cigarette carefully between my lips and leaned into the flame of Alice's lighter while she gave me a tutorial on how to get the cigarette to light and how to take a drag. Her instructions were impeccable. Within thirty seconds I was coughing wretchedly, feeling as if someone had poured some sort of highly combustible fluid into my lungs.

Alice laughed as she watched me trying to regain my composure while she lit her cigarette easily and took a deep drag.

"How'd you get so good at it?" I sputtered, wiping tears from the corners of my eyes.

"I've been practicing at home."

"I almost had one of my step-dad's the other day. I was afraid he'd notice one was missing."

"My sister's boyfriend gave me a couple." She took another jaunty puff, and coolly tapped the ash onto the ground behind her.

"I need an older sister," I complained, taking a shorter drag on the cigarette and then blindly stretching my hand behind me, trying to emulate her casual ash-flick.

"Jesus, easy there!"

Startled by this exclamation from behind me, I whirled around just in time to see the cute boy dodging my swinging arm as the cigarette in my hand became a dangerous weapon.

"I came down here looking for a light, not to get my shirt lit on fire."

"Man, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry."

I backed up too much and bumped my head on the railing. He laughed and reached for my hand to steady me.

"Don't worry about it. I _do_ need a light, though. I just ran out of matches."

He gestured towards my cigarette and then pulled my hand towards his mouth, using my cigarette to light his. Alice and I watched this process with fascination. I don't know what she was thinking, but I was struck dumb by the erotic nature of this gesture. He let go of my hand and I tried to remember how to move my limbs. It wasn't easy.

"Thanks. Nothing worse than running out of matches when you're hanging for a smoke."

"Um, no problem." I smiled and shrugged, rubbing the back of my head where a bump was already forming. I watched him reach up and curl his hand around the railing. His bicep jumped as he flexed his hand around the metal.

"So, you enjoyed the ride?" he asked.

"It was great," Alice said. "Thanks for suggesting we switch places. She would have crushed me."

"I'm not an _oaf_," I protested, beginning to feel more and more awkward and uncomfortable with every passing second.

"You're a lot taller, that's all," the cute boy said, closing his right eye as he dragged on his cigarette.

It was a stretch, but I pretended he was winking at me and felt slightly better.

"Hey, what's it like being a carnie?" Alice asked.

So much for feeling better. I felt my face begin to burn, but he didn't seem perturbed.

"I'm not a carnie. It's just a summer gig, that's all."

"Oh, so you're from Toronto?"

Alice was on an information gathering roll. I, on the other hand, had completely forgotten how to function.

"Yeah. I go to Jarvis Collegiate. How about you guys?"

He looked first at Alice, and then at me. And that's where his eyes stayed. Gorgeous green eyes, fixed on my face, willing me to speak.

"We go to Humberside Collegiate," I said, proud of myself for stringing together five words that made sense.

"Oooh, West-End girls."

As he spoke, his mouth twisted into a strange smile. I had no idea what his comment meant. All I could think about was the song by the Pet Shop Boys, the lyrics unfolding in my brain as I stood there mutely. Again, Alice came to the rescue.

"I'm Alice, by the way. This is Bella."

She bobbed her head at me, puffing rabidly on her cigarette. I hadn't ventured another drag, afraid to have a second hacking attack. I simply tapped the ashes off the end every once in a while, hoping he wouldn't notice that I was wasting a perfectly good cigarette—or a perfectly bad one, depending on how you looked at it.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Edward."

_Edward_. Such a formal name. Dorky even. I was pretty sure if there was a person in the world who least suited his name, it was him. He took three more long drags on his cigarette and then dropped it and squashed the butt with his sneaker.

"Well, I should get back to work. The ride's about over."

He took a packet of Big Red chewing gum out of his back pocket and held it out to us. Alice declined, but I took a piece, even though I've never liked cinnamon chewing gum. I watched Edward fold his piece of gum in half against his tongue and then lick his lips as he started to chew. Up until that point in my life, I'd never have described myself as having an oral fixation. I'd never been particularly interested in being a stick of gum, either. Edward quickly altered my career aspirations. Entirely. I wanted nothing more than to be folded in half against his tongue like that.

"Hey, if you're around again before Labour Day, you should swing by and say hi," he said.

"Sure. For sure," Alice said.

I mumbled some sort of agreement as I watched him, by which I mean _gaped at his ass_, as he ascended the stairs. He turned and gave us another wave and then he headed back to his spot by the railing to wait for the next group of riders to settle in. I slipped the stick of gum into my front pocket and reached for Alice's arm, spiriting her away as quickly as I could and dropping my cigarette as we walked, not even bothering to squash the butt-end. We didn't stop walking until we got to the bumper cars, four rides away, where we linked hands and screamed into each other's faces.

I cannot adequately explain this behaviour, other than to say…we were fifteen.

... ... ...

**Thanks for reading. Hope you're enjoying.**

**R**


	3. Cool

**Chapter 3 - Cool**

* * *

I wasn't a brazen kid. Amid a group of my peers, I was always the shy one, reluctant to bend rules and push the envelope, ever wary of consequences. Meeting Alice in eighth grade helped me come out of my shell. She wasn't a bad kid, but she was far more adventurous than I was. Always seeming comfortable in social gatherings, her raucous laugh and lack of self-consciousness went a long way to help her blend in.

In groups, I would struggle to keep up, finding myself perpetually tagging along and earning the title "Alice's friend," my name often an unnecessary addendum. But when the two of us were alone, I always felt as if we were equals. Those times when she'd let down her guard and show me glimpses of the introspective girl she kept hidden from the rest of the world—that's when I knew her outlandish behaviour was all for show.

The playing field was at its most level when it came to our love lives. Late bloomers, both of us, I always assumed Alice would eventually forge ahead, meet a guy, start to go steady with him, and feed me snippets of information which I'd devour as I lived vicariously through her romantic adventures. I never dreamed I'd be the one blazing the trail with her in my wake.

X-X-X

The day after our trip to the Ex, Alice and I talked on the phone for two hours. (To this day, I have no clue what we found to talk about on the phone for hours on end). That afternoon, she griped about a four-day, nine to six babysitting stint she had coming up, blaming her mother for throwing her under the bus with a neighbor down the street whose daytime care provider had to take an emergency trip out of town.

I found this arrangement highly inconvenient. I wanted to return to the CNE with Alice so we could 'swing by' and say hi to Edward. Alice said if I liked him, I should just go by myself, arguing that I didn't need her there as a third wheel while I made lovey-dovey eyes at my newest crush. She scoffed at me when I told her he probably wasn't interested in me, reminding me that he'd touched my hand three separate times, lit his cigarette off mine and stared at me intently the whole time we'd been talking to him. He'd told us to look him up, but she was certain he'd actually been talking to_ me_.

I pondered her observations and her suggestion. He _had_ seemed more interested in me than in Alice, and he was definitely more attentive than any boy I'd ever met, despite the fact that we'd only talked to him for a grand total of about six minutes. But did I really have the guts to go to the Ex alone with the express purpose of flirting with a guy I didn't even know—one who went to the notoriously edgy Jarvis Collegiate, of all schools?

I spent a whole day mulling it over, and in the end, daring beat caution. I was almost sixteen. It was time for me to be my own person—to stop lurking in the shadow of Alice's larger-than-life personality. Why shouldn't I go to the Ex alone?

Bound and determined to take a bold step forward before the school year started, I prepared myself to visit the Ex the following day. I knew there was no way my mom and step-dad would give me permission to go to the amusement park unaccompanied, so Alice and I hatched a story in case my parents called her place looking for me. I told them I'd be spending the day with her and she told her mom I'd be helping her babysit.

It was strange going through our pre-outing routine alone. Slapping on makeup in the CNE washroom and stowing my "sensible" clothes in a locker near the gates to the park was the kind of thing that felt like an adventure when I was with Alice. Doing it alone made me feel like a child prostitute—or a runaway. I shook off the icky feelings by closing my eyes and picturing Edward playing air bass on his thigh. Much better feelings replaced the icky ones.

They were rather warm, jittery feelings.

By the time I was in the amusement park's grounds, the warm, jittery feelings had increased, but not necessarily in a good way. In short, I was a nervous wreck. Countless times, I almost turned back, but finally, I convinced myself that if I didn't follow through, I'd forever wonder what might have happened.

So that's how I found myself hiding behind a ticket booth at three o'clock on a hot August afternoon, watching Edward work. Simply being a few hundred feet away from him as he leaned his gloriously tight ass against the railing and remained there smoking, laughing, and air-strumming was an amazing rush, but I couldn't see his face properly. I needed a closer look. I also needed a strategy. I had no intention of going on the ride alone, but summoning up the guts to walk over with no other purpose than to say hi to him pushed the boundaries of my courage.

I stood behind the ticket booth for about fifteen minutes, applying lip gloss, spraying myself with Love's Baby Soft, crunching peppermint Lifesavers and essentially talking myself into and out of casually walking over to the Polar Express and trying to catch his eye. In the end, Edward made the decision for me.

He disappeared from the railing—as he did every time the ride filled with new patrons—but then he reappeared at the top of the exit ramp a few minutes later, leaning over to talk to his buddy—the one who ran the ride. Then he was jogging down the metal steps and walking towards a snack booth about fifty feet to my right.

Now was my chance. I leaped into action.

I escaped from my hiding spot and made my way to the snack booth, fishing in my purse as I walked, pretending to look for my wallet. I crashed into him thirty seconds later, stepping on his toe in the process.

"Hey! Watch where you're fu—"

That's all he said before he realized it was me, which struck him dumb. I was equally mute, but whereas surprise had taken his power of speech, terror had robbed me of mine.

Because, seriously, what in the godforsaken hell was I doing?

"Wow, Bella, right?" he said, stepping back and regaining his balance.

"Yeah, that's right. Shit, I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name," I said.

How about _that_ for the mother of all whoppers?

"Edward," he said, his mouth twisting as he spoke.

"Right," I snapped my fingers and nodded. "Of course."

"I didn't think I'd see you again, West-End girl." He looked around absently. "Where's your friend—the one you were with the other day?"

"Who, Alice? She had to split for a babysitting gig. I was about to leave, too, but it's so hot, I figured I'd grab a drink for the road."

Feeling as if I might crack any second if I tried to maintain eye contact, I turned to look at the snack booth. I'd never lied so brazenly to a guy before, but I figured if Alice could invent a cocky alter-ego, then why the hell couldn't I?

"Cool, let me get you something," he offered. "I was about to grab a Coke."

Edward bought two Cokes and then directed me to a bench in a sliver of shade, where he pulled out his pack of smokes, sliding one of the cigarettes upwards with his thumb and holding it out to me.

I pictured myself coughing up a lung in front of him. Not the look I was going for. "No thanks. I'm, uh, I'm trying to quit, actually."

_I've smoked half a cigarette in my life and now I'm quitting. Cold turkey. Impressive, right?_

I'd read William Blake's poem _The Liar_ in school the year before. I imagined Blake wagging his finger at me with his shaggy eyebrows drawn together. "Deceiver, dissembler, Your trousers are alight." That's what he'd say to me. I was lying so liberally that my pants—another pair of jeans which had been taken in for me by Alice's sister—were officially on fire.

"Is that why you just hold your cigarette and don't actually smoke it?" Edward asked, taking a long drag on his newly lit Export A cigarette.

"Yeah. Surprisingly, it works. Of course, it would be a lot easier if Alice would quit, too."

"Maybe you should remind her that smoking stunts your growth."

"That's a good idea. Pretty sure she doesn't want to be five-foot-one for the rest of her life."

"It's probably really shitty of me to sit here blowing smoke in your face, too. Sorry about that."

He took one last heavy drag and lifted his chin, blowing the smoke up and away from me. I watched his lips, fascinated by his open-mouthed pucker as he exhaled skywards. He dropped the cigarette on the ground and squashed it with the sole of his shoe. Again he followed up his smoke with a stick of cinnamon chewing gum, offering me a piece.

"No thanks. I'll just stick with this," I said, taking a sip of my Coke while surreptitiously following the path of the stick of gum as it traveled from the pack to his fingers to his tongue. God, he oozed sex appeal. My fifteen-year-old hormones didn't stand a chance.

He sipped at his drink and then placed the cup between his thighs, sighing extravagantly and stretching his arms out along the top slat of the bench. If I'd sat back, his arm would have been around my shoulders. Sort of. Self-conscious, I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees.

"So if we hadn't bumped into each other by accident, I never would have seen you again," he said. "Good thing it's so hot, or you might not have hung around to grab a drink. Guess I lucked out."

I shrugged, a picture of nonchalance, while in reality, I was feeling anything _but_ nonchalant.

_Guess I lucked out!?_

"You're not the talkative type, huh?" he observed.

"I guess not." I tucked my hair over my ear and gave him a quick sideways glance.

"I think I make you nervous. You know, because you don't really know me. Never talk to strangers, right? Your mom told you that?"

"Maybe."

My cocky persona was falling flat on her face. Edward was seeing right through me. What had I gotten myself into?

"Well, maybe you should ask me some questions. Get to know me. Then I won't be a stranger. Good idea?"

This was a great idea, but the questions forming in my mind were all ridiculous.

_How come you're so hot? Is it uncomfortable for guys wearing jeans that tight? Can we make out so I can actually kiss a guy before Alice does?_

"Um, okay," I said, dismissing these absurd questions from my mind, afraid one of them might actually pop out of my mouth. Getting-to-know-you questions. Surely I could pull something together. "Well, how old are you?"

Perfect. This was perfect.

"Seventeen," he said, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he worked in the piece of gum.

_Seventeen? Holy cow!_

"How long have you been seventeen? I mean, are you almost eighteen?"

"June. I turned seventeen in June, so, no, I'm not almost eighteen at all. How about you? How old are you?"

I briefly considered lying, but the answer slipped out before my filter could kick in. "Fifteen."

"_Fifteen_. Huh." Edward pondered. He nodded and squinted at me out of the corner of his eye. "How long have you been fifteen?"

"Eleven months and one week."

"Well, there you go, then. Almost sixteen, right?"

"September thirteenth," I confirmed, a shy smile creeping to the surface. "Three weeks."

"You look really sweet when you smile like that. I like it."

A blush joined the shy smile and the two of them linked hands and did a silly jig all over my face. I opened my mouth, prepared to ask him what it was like going to school at Jarvis Collegiate, when we were interrupted by a raucous shout.

"Edbag, get your ass back up here!"

It was the greasy-haired carnie, Edward's sidekick.

"Break's over," Edward sighed. "Denny calls the shots. I gotta go." He sat up, retrieving his arm which brushed casually across my back as he moved. "So the chances of us bumping into each other again are slim to none, I bet. Would you want to give me your phone number? I could call you some time?"

Utterly and completely dazed, I gaped at him. My phone number? He wanted my phone number? He misinterpreted my wordless stare.

"I guess it's probably not a good idea for a girl to give out her phone number to some guy she hardly knows, though, right?" he added.

It was a good thing his common sense was functioning, because mine had hung up a "Gone Fishing" sign. Once I'd relocated my vocal chords, I'd have happily given him my phone number, along with my blood type, my social insurance number, and the promise that I'd hand over my first born child if he'd requested it.

"Look, hang on a sec," he said, standing and then crossing to a nearby ticket booth. Denny was still shouting at him to get back to work. Edward gave him the finger as he walked. I watched him borrow a pen from the ticket booth attendant and open up his cigarette pack, scribbling something across the flap and then tearing it off. I stood up as he returned to the bench. "That's _my_ phone number," he said, handing me the little slip of cardboard . "Give me a call. We can hang out. If you're into it."

"I'm into it. Sounds cool."

Cool. Totally cool. Cool as a cucumber, just like me.

X–X–X

I tracked Alice down at her babysitting gig shortly before five. I was bursting. I simply had to tell her about my afternoon. She was suitably excited and jumped up and down with me, shrieking, as I'd hoped she would.

I'd call him, of course, she told me, pacing as she planned my strategy. Not today—that would come off as desperate, but definitely the next day, or he'd dismiss me as not interested. This was a delicate operation. I had to proceed carefully. I had to play it cool.

I followed her instructions, wishing away the evening, floating through dinner and absently watching prime time TV with my step-dad while my mom did dishes and worked her way through a mountain of ironing. All the while, Edward's phone number scrawled across that torn-off piece of cigarette pack burned a hole in my pocket, never far from my thoughts.

I yawned theatrically at nine-thirty, pretending exhaustion so I could retire to my room where I crawled into bed and listened to Air Supply on my Walkman. I lay there fantasizing about Edward's lips and tongue, imagining steamy kisses and cautiously roaming hands.

Compared to the events that would come to pass in the coming weeks, my fantasies were positively tame.

* * *

**I know there's lots of stories out there. Thanks for choosing to read mine.  
**

**R**


	4. Dizzy

**Chapter 4 - Dizzy**

* * *

Phoning Edward was easily the most terrifying moment of my life. It was an experience that gave the tallest roller coasters a run for their money, soared well beyond the terror I'd felt while singing in front of the whole school at the Christmas assembly the year before, and even trumped being a passenger in the car when my mother ventured onto the Don Valley Parkway in rush hour while learning to drive (an experience from which, to this day, I've not properly recovered).

As with most terrifying experiences, though, it was scariest in the anticipatory stages. I waited until noon, unable to eat breakfast for fear of vomiting. Finally, I escaped to my bedroom where I bit my nails to the quick and stared at the phone. I dialed the first few numbers countless times and hung up every time, practicing what I'd say between each short-lived surge of bravery.

John Taylor, Duran Duran's hot bassist, smirked at me from the poster above my bed. _You can do it, Bella_, he told me with his dreamy brown eyes and cheeky smile. _Don't blow this._

I stared at the wrapped piece of cinnamon gum on my dresser and took a deep breath. I did _not _want an unchewed stick of gum to be the only thing I had to show for my encounter with Edward. I hated cinnamon gum, but I had a feeling tasting it on his tongue would alter my perception of the flavour for good.

I had no clue if kissing was included on Edward's list of things to do while "hanging out," but there was only one way to find out. I grabbed the phone and hastily dialed the number, closing my eyes and holding my breath as I listened to it ringing. I was about to hang up on the sixth ring when I heard the word which changed the universe as I knew it.

_Hello?_

X-X-X

That phone call would go down as the most awkward conversation in history—it was definitely the most awkward phone conversation _I'd_ ever had. Most of the awkwardness was my fault. I was a stuttering, blundering fool, while Edward was cool, calm and collected, happy to hear from me and eager to set something up so we could—yep, you guessed it—_hang out_. He never used the word _date,_ and I tried not to read more into the conversation than he was saying, wary of being disappointed.

"I'm glad you called," he told me. "I have to leave for work in about half an hour. I'm working one 'til seven-thirty. You wanna swing by the Ex in time for the end of my shift? We can check some stuff out. I don't get to hack around the park much. I'm always working."

"Yeah, sure. Yeah. That sounds good," I agreed, the cogs in my brain already turning over with potential stories I could tell my parents. Seven-thirty. I'd need Alice's help.

"Cool. Seven-thirty at the Polar Express. I'll see you then. Oh, and West-End? Don't let me smoke, okay? You've inspired me to try to quit."

"Okay," I said, smiling at the thought of seeing him in a little over seven hours, but also thrilled by the notion that in the fifteen minutes I'd spent with this gorgeous guy, I'd somehow inspired him to want to quit smoking.

X-X-X

I arrived at the entrance to the Polar Express fashionably late. There was no reasonable excuse for lateness. I'd told my parents I was going out for dinner with Alice and had to leave the house at five o'clock to make the lie appear legitimate. The lateness was all for show—part of my I-couldn't-care-less persona, which I realized needed a little bit of grooming.

In actual fact, I was about five minutes early, so I stalled, waiting around by the bumper cars four rides away from the Polar Express, which is how I was able to spy on Edward, watching him standing in front of the ride waiting for me. By seven-thirty-five, he started pacing, checking his watch every few seconds and scanning the nearby crowds as the time ticked by. He was holding a cigarette, but it didn't seem to be lit. I wondered what would happen if I didn't appear. Would he be upset and end up smoking it?

The surge of power I felt, knowing he was the one doing the waiting was intoxicating. The fact that he seemed a little rattled boosted my confidence. By seven-forty, I couldn't wait a moment longer, and I ducked out from behind the ride, blending in with the crowd and "appearing" in front of Edward a minute later.

"There you are," he said, a lazy smile tugging his lips upwards. "I thought you were gonna stand me up, West-End."

"Sorry. I guess I'm late."

"That's okay." He leaned forward, his mouth close to my ear, and whispered, "I'll forgive you this time."

My confidence evaporated, his proximity once again making me dizzy. I stood awkwardly, my hands plastered to my sides while he slipped his unlit cigarette over his ear and scanned the nearby rides. "So you're the expert. You've done the circuit of the park a couple of times. Any recommendations?"

"It doesn't matter. Pretty much everything makes me want to pass out or throw up."

"Well, that sounds fun," he laughed. "Maybe you need to go on something that moves slowly and in a straight line."

"Around here? Not likely." I looked over his shoulder at the Polar Express, watching as it spun riders to the edge of hysteria.

"Ever been on that?" he asked, pointing upwards at the Alpine Way, a cable car that took riders from the Princes' Gates to the Dufferin Gates, 100 feet in the air.

"Alice and I ran out of time," I said.

The truth was that I'd told Alice I didn't want to go on it because I'd been afraid of being in the enclosed capsule that high up in the air. If claustrophobia hadn't struck, vertigo surely would have.

"The view is amazing from up there. We should go on it. Do you want to?"

While I tried to quietly craft a well-worded refusal, bravado answered in my stead, blurting out a confident and enthusiastic, "Sure. Sounds fun."

Infatuation was making me stupid. I would have spent a hell of a lot more time reproaching myself if Edward hadn't casually reached for my hand, slipping his fingers through mine as we turned and started walking through the midway towards the Princes' Gates. Once he did that, my brain was of no use to me—it melted into a blob of useless matter. My heart and my stomach, on the other hand, began to perform a tumbling act that would have rivaled the floor routine of any Olympic gymnast.

Edward chattered as we walked, telling me about his day, how hard it was not to smoke, but how every time he was tempted, he'd think of my smile. He told me he spent most of the day with an unlit smoke hanging out of his mouth, unable to break that part of the habit. I wanted to answer, congratulate him for trying to quit, but all of a sudden, it was as if I'd swallowed an entire tub of white school glue, effectively pasting my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

All I could think about was the feel of his hand and the fact that he'd been thinking about my smile all day. No one could be expected to be a fully functioning human under these circumstances. Luckily, Edward didn't expect much from me. He appeared content to fill the silences or let them stretch out, neither option seeming to concern him much.

When I think back to this first date—a term that I ascribe to that evening, even though Edward and I never referred to it as such at the time—I'm supremely jealous of my fifteen-year-old self. How easy everything was. We'd had two brief encounters during which we'd gleaned the vaguest of details about each other, and yet, there we were, walking along the midway hand in hand. I had no clue how complicated life and relationships would become as I grew older.

Youth truly is wasted on the young.

X-X-X

The cable cars were four-seaters, but of course, Edward and I rode alone, sitting beside each other on one of the red vinyl benches. At first, I was fine, primarily because I couldn't see anything, but as soon as the car slid out of the bay and starting zooming down the cable wire, I froze.

Edward had no clue that I was having a meltdown. He leaned forward on the bench and peered through the windows. "Great view of the lake, huh?" he said, cupping his hand around his eyes and scanning the horizon.

I nodded without looking, and he reached for my hand. The clamminess of my palm should have clued him in, but he was far too preoccupied with the view. When he quickly slipped back into the bench, the car rocked a little. I squeaked and scrunched my eyes closed, breathing in and out deeply as I fanned myself with my free hand. There was no denying it. I was petrified.

Edward frowned at me. "How come your hand is all sweaty? Wait, are you afraid of heights?"

I drew my shoulders up defensively. "A little."

"Well, shit, we're stuck in here for a while. Don't freak out, okay?"

"I'm not gonna freak out. I just…I can't look down." I flapped my hand in front of my face again. "Oh God."

"Jesus. Okay, put your face here." He guided my head onto his shoulder and placed his hand on my cheek. "Keep your eyes closed."

I nodded mutely and he clasped my hand reassuringly. I should have been basking in the feeling of his shoulder beneath my cheek, his fingers gently squeezing mine, but I was thoroughly distracted by the feeling of panic gripping every nerve in my body.

"Why didn't you say something, West-End? We didn't have to go on this ride, you know."

"I didn't want you to think I was a chicken."

Funny how I picked then to be honest. I should have piped up about ten minutes earlier, but no, I'd opted to say, "Sure. Sounds fun." My cocky persona was a bust.

He laughed lightly. "Chicken? What are we—eleven?"

"I know. I'm so lame."

"You're not lame. You're _so_ not lame. You're sweet. You're the sweetest girl I've ever met, Bella."

"You hardly know me," I protested, rubbing my cheek against his shoulder.

"I know enough," he said, tipping my chin up and searching my face. "I know enough to think I want to kiss you."

I blinked back at him and swallowed. We both licked our lips. It was _that moment_ in every after-school movie I'd ever watched. Then that moment became another moment—an even better one—because Edward angled his face and found my lips with his and I was being kissed by a boy.

I, Alice's bland sidekick, was being kissed for the first time. This would never happen again. I would never have a _first kiss_ ever again, and I needed to make the most of it. Vertigo be damned.

With my eyes closed, I took in every sensation. His lips pressed to mine over and over again, the little pecks accompanied by soft kissing sounds. His knee was pressing against mine and his hand was resting on my shoulder near my collarbone, approximately three inches above my right breast. I needed to remember these minute details. Alice would demand them later.

Occasionally, Edward's hair tickled my forehead as he turned his face this way and that. Then, I felt his tongue against my lips and I melted. When his tongue found my tongue, I burst into flames. This wasn't just any kiss. This was a passionate kiss and the boy giving me this passionate kiss was drop-dead gorgeous, and he thought I was the sweetest girl he'd ever met. This was the best day of my life.

My first kiss quickly became a fully-fledged make-out session. We kissed the whole way from the Princes' Gates to the Dufferin Gates. Edward took my hand, sliding it up his chest. I explored the taut muscles of his shoulder and slipped my fingers up his neck and into his hair, where they seemed happy to stay, tangled in his soft locks. Edward's hand moved from my collar bone to my thigh, where it resolutely remained a few inches above my knee, his circling fingertips igniting a fire that he would continue to stoke for weeks. Of course, at that point, I had no idea what the future held. I was simply content to glory in the moment.

I overcame my fear of heights, that day. I didn't care if I was stuck in a life-sized sardine can 100 feet off the ground—Edward's kisses were that amazing.

...

**Thanks for reading. Hope you're enjoying. If teen "experimentation" squigs you out, you might not want to read on. **

**R**


	5. Hanging Out

**Chapter 5 - Hanging Out**

* * *

I experienced my first kiss at eight o'clock one evening inside a cable car as it zipped along a hundred feet above the CNE midway. Half an hour later, I was no longer in the cable car, but I might as well have been, since my feet were quite obviously nowhere near the ground. Edward bought me an ice-cream, a reward for facing my fear of heights so admirably. I had to restrain my urge to laugh. Did he really not understand how completely he'd distracted me from my anxiety?

As he ate his own ice-cream, I watched his tongue slide through the smooth vanilla cream. This made me almost as weak in the knees as his kisses had.

"I never eat crap," he said, bobbing his head at his cone. "Quitting smoking is gonna be bad for my health."

"It'll be bad for your waistline," I pointed out pragmatically. "It'll be great for your health."

"I guess so."

He tossed the remnants of his cone in a nearby garbage can and flung his arm around my shoulders. I slipped my arm around his waist, containing my desire to jump up and down, squealing. I could not jump up and down with Edward. I would have to wait until later—while talking on the phone with Alice.

Apparently, in the adolescent world of courtship, hand-holding led to steamy kisses, which was followed shortly thereafter by walking arm in arm. Then, once all the introductory physical cues had been addressed, conversations about future opportunities to "hang out" could follow.

"So are you free tomorrow, or do you have a job?" he asked me as we wandered along with no particular destination.

"No, I don't have a job. I babysit sometimes, but that's about it."

"Must be nice. My parents are hard asses about me working part-time. They make me chip in for car insurance. It sucks."

"You drive?"

"Yeah. I don't have my own car yet. Saving for that, too."

My heart rate escalated at the thought of driving around the city with Edward at the wheel.

"We should hang out tomorrow," he said. "I have to go drop off an application at Long and McQuade in the morning, but then I'll be home for the rest of the day."

"Long and McQuade?"

"It's a music store. They sell instruments and stuff. That's where I wanna work once school starts. Shooting the shit with people about music and instruments would be a decent gig. So, anyway, tomorrow? You wanna come over?"

"You really want to see me again?"

"Why do you look so surprised?"

"I don't know." I rolled my eyes at myself then flicked them upwards to the cable cars soaring above us. "I kind of made an ass of myself earlier."

"Everyone's afraid of something. There's nothing to be embarrassed about."

"You don't seem to be afraid of much."

"Me?" He chuckled. "I'm afraid of lots of things."

"Name one."

"Okay. Growing up. Getting old and boring. Responsibility."

"I can't imagine you being old and boring."

"I don't know, I look at my parents, you know? As you get older, responsibilities suck the joy out of stuff. And they're always asking what I plan to do with myself when I'm older. It's like…_I'm seventeen_. Why do I have to decide now? I'm trying to have a good time here."

"So guys just wanna have fun too, huh?" I said, almost immediately regretting my off-hand reference to Cyndi Lauper.

"That's another thing I'm afraid of." He smiled and backed me up against a railing, linking his hands behind my back. "Pop music. I'm scared it's going to take over the world."

"That's a weird thing to be afraid of."

"No weirder than heights." He leaned into me and lowered his voice. "No weirder than worrying that you don't want to see me again. How am I gonna quit smoking if I don't get a chance to see that smile? Think of my health. You have to tell me I can see you again."

Instead of giving me a chance to answer him one way or the other, Edward kissed me, vanilla ice cream kisses, as persuasive as they were delicious.

Of course, there was no need to persuade me. I was in for a penny, in for a pound. Truth be told, I was in for a metric ton. Edward wanted to spend more time with me. Eventually he'd ask me to go with him, and then we'd be boyfriend and girlfriend—dating. A couple.

Alice was going to lose her mind.

X-X-X

Unfortunately, when I called Alice that night to fill her in on my date with Edward, she was too tired from her nine-hour babysitting gig to dedicate what I would consider the requisite time and energy for a detailed play-by-play of my evening. I was forced to quickly work my way through the highlights: hand-holding, kisses and ice-cream. I capped off the story by announcing that I was going to his house the next day.

After screaming in my ear, she dropped her voice, whispering insistently. "Tomorrow night. You're staying over here so we can get caught up. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Take notes, Bella."

"I'm not taking notes, Alice."

"Take mental notes."

"I'll try."

"You know I hate you, right?"

"I know. I hate you, too."

"Cool. Night, bitch."

"Night."

X-X-X

Edward's family lived in Rosedale. His place was easy to find—only a five-minute walk from the subway. It would have been even easier to find if, instead of hastily drawing me a map on the back of a napkin, he'd told me to head to the house on the street with the music blaring so loudly, the windows were rattling. Knocking on the door was a waste of time. After three attempts, I tried the door handle and found it open. I poked my head in and called out a greeting.

"Hello?"

Even that was futile. I stepped inside and tried again.

"Hello? It's me, Bella!"

The music stopped abruptly. A muscular guy wearing rugby pants and a Gold's Gym T-shirt came thumping down the stairs, stopping half-way when he saw me. It wasn't Edward.

"I'm sorry." I backed up to the door. "I think I'm in the wrong house."

"No, wait, are you Bella?"

"Yes," I said, relieved to discover I hadn't accidentally conducted my first home invasion. I gestured at the door behind me. "I knocked…"

"Yeah, no worries. I'm Emmett. Edward's in the basement."

He jogged down the rest of the steps and opened a door under the stairway, hollering down from the top step.

"Edward, get up here. Your girlfriend's here!"

_Girlfriend_? Is that how Edward had described me? I didn't have time to ponder the question because I heard Edward's footsteps coming up from the basement, and then he was there, standing in front of me, wearing another pair of incredibly tight jeans. I forced myself not to stare at his crotch, no easy feat. Today he was sporting a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. I thought about the WHAM! shirt I'd almost worn. That would have been so bad.

"Hey, Bella. Come on in. This is my brother, Emmett."

He bobbed his head at his brother and waved me over, holding his hand out to me. I crossed to join him, and he grabbed my hand, threading his fingers through mine.

"We'll be downstairs, Emm."

"I'm going to the gym. Watch yourself, Casanova," his brother said, lightly smacking him on the side of the head.

"Fuck off, Emmett."

He glared at his brother then gave my hand a tug, leading me downstairs. The rec room was little more than a glorified jam room. A drum set was assembled on a raised platform with a keyboard and a couple of guitars arranged in front of the makeshift stage.

"Hey, are you in a band?" I said, surveying the set up.

Edward shrugged. "Kinda. Not really. We just hack around. Nothing serious."

"You play the bass guitar, right?"

"That's right," he confirmed. "And keyboards."

"Really? Both?"

"Yep. I can play the drums a bit, too. Not my specialty, though."

He crossed to the keyboard and flipped a switch. With his hands poised over the keys, he looked over at me and smiled broadly.

"Name that tune," he said, and then he played the first telltale bars of Van Halen's _Jump_.

"You like Van Halen?" I asked. "Aren't they a little too _pop_ for you?"

"A little. When you jam you have to compromise sometimes."

"I guess so."

I stood, awkwardly adrift in the middle of the room.

"So do you want to listen to some music?" he asked me.

"Sure," I shrugged.

What I really wanted to do was body slam him onto the couch and kiss him until I was blue in the face, but I was nowhere near forward enough to suggest that.

"Bathroom's in there," he said, pointing to a closed door on the long paneled wall. "And the stereo's in here."

He took my hand and led me through a door in the back corner of the basement. The room was dim, the small window near the ceiling covered with a Pink Floyd banner. Edward flicked on a lamp.

"Oh. This your bedroom." I wanted to slap myself. Of course it was his bedroom. Dork.

"Yeah. Not much to it, but I like being down here, out of the way. Privacy…you know."

He smiled, and I turned away, my face burning as I considered the implications of that one word.

_Privacy._

"Not that it matters, right now." He shrugged. "No one else is home."

I spun around slowly. No one else was home. We were going to listen to some music. Alone. In his bedroom.

"Have a seat," Edward said, motioning to the double bed which dominated the tiny room.

I sat on the edge of the mattress and then bravely pushed myself into the middle of the bed, lying back with my hands crossed on my tummy. Edward started flipping through a green milk crate full of albums.

"You like Zeppelin?" he asked me.

"Sure."

He looked at me dubiously. "You were wearing a Duran Duran T-shirt the first time I saw you."

"I like lots of different genres of music," I lied.

"That's cool."

He pulled a record out of the crate and twirled it in his hands, blowing dust off the surface before setting it in place on the turntable and stooping to carefully place the needle in the groove. I didn't know it then, but I now know the song was _Houses of the Holy. _ To this day, whenever I hear that song, or any of the songs on Led Zeppelin's _Physical Graffiti_, for that matter, I get a strange nostalgic tingle low in my stomach.

On that day, though, the tingling was a purely physical reaction to Edward's closeness and the knowledge that I was lying on his bed. And we were alone. When he crossed the room to join me, I shifted closer to the wall to make room for him. He rested his hand on my stomach and leaned down to kiss me, teasing my lips open with his tongue. The tingling became a simultaneously wonderful and awful throbbing that moved lower and lower and seemed to keep time with our moving tongues.

As incredible as our first kisses had been, nothing compared to this, the closeness of his whole body coupled with the meeting of lips and tongues—cinnamon and seduction.

Occasionally, between kisses, he would pull away to whisper to me.

"Your lips are so soft," he said at one point. I think I told him his were too.

No wonder his brother had called him Casanova. He knew exactly what to do and say. I, on the other hand, was flying blind. I wondered if he knew the terrible truth—the fact that I had no idea what I was doing. My relative inexperience was both embarrassing and paralyzing. When Edward dragged his T-shirt over his head and tossed it on the floor, I panicked, too freaked out to properly examine his bare chest the way I would later, when rolling around on the bed with him became standard fare.

"I've never…I don't know what to do…" I stammered.

He shushed me with kisses. Again and again his lips brushed across mine, and then his fingers were at my waist, slowly inching under my T-shirt.

"You're so sweet," he said.

His kisses and assurances soothed me. I'd always imagined frantic make-out sessions, with the boy and girl tearing at each other's clothes, but this was nothing like that. Edward was deliberate and methodical, what I then assumed was patience, but what I later thought was probably a boy being careful not to mess up his chance with an inexperienced and incredibly gauche almost sixteen-year-old. One wrong move and I might've bolted.

When I didn't object to the lifting of my T-shirt, he kissed his way across my chest. This was way more than I'd bargained for. I would have been quite happy to neck for hours on end, but now here was Edward, slipping my bra out of the way so he could pull my left nipple into his mouth, his fresh-from-the-shower hair tickling my chin and nose as I lifted my head, eager to observe him in action.

Watching Edward's tongue move in hot, wet circles, my breathing quickened. What I first mistook as biting, I suddenly realized was Edward sucking really hard on the skin right beside my nipple. I would later discover he'd given me my first hickey, a reddish bruise on the swell of my left breast, which would change to a purple and yellow smudge in the coming week. (I would wear that hickey like a quiet badge of honour, keeping it a secret, even from Alice).

Edward turned his attention lower. His hand back at my waist, his fingers moved to the button of my jeans. His eyes met mine.

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

I nodded, and then I shook my head, not sure if his words were a question or statement, but just knowing I didn't want him to stop. He looked at me earnestly, his hand now still on my stomach.

"Seriously, Bella. This is important. Do you want me to stop?"

"No," I whispered. "No, I don't want you to stop."

He lowered his lips to meet mine again, his fingers fumbling at my button and then working my zipper down. His hand came to rest just inside my jeans while he continued kissing me, his body moving closer and closer to mine. I squeezed my eyes shut as his fingers crept lower. He brushed his nose against mine softly and my eyes fluttered open. He was watching me.

"Sweet girl."

As he said this, the tips of his fingers snuck under the elastic of my bikini panties. I tried not to tense up. I didn't want him to think I was a prude. I breathed evenly, looking up at his face. Slowly his fingers moved lower and that's when I had a series of horrible flashbacks to Health class, my teacher slapping picture after picture on the overhead. Anatomical words leapt to mind.

Pubis.

Edward's fingers were on my pubis, and they were creeping towards my clitoris. What if he was grossed out by how wet I was? I could feel the heat between my own legs. What would it feel like to him? Oh God!

I realized this must be the secret purpose of Health class. To ruin all make-out sessions with memories of nasty textbook pictures and clinical terminology. I closed my eyes and wiped the words and pictures from my mind, trying instead to focus on the feelings. The music in the background, Edward's fingers slowly slipping towards the throbbing spot between my legs which I was quite happy to call _the ache_. Yes, he was going to touch _my ache_.

When he did, I gasped, my hips leaping upwards. This was reflex, pure and simple. My body wanted his fingers there, and my hips wanted to lift up off the bed as his fingers rubbed me. I looked at him, trying not to move too much, torn now between rival personas, not wanting to be the frigid virgin, but at the same time, afraid of seeming like a skank who's "been around."

"Is that good?" he asked, his cinnamon breath just as warm and soft against my mouth as his fingers were between my legs.

"Uh huh."

"Feels good to me, too."

I didn't know what he meant then. I'd understand later, the feeling associated with giving someone else pleasure, how stimulating that alone can be, but at that moment, I focused on his words and his touch and tried to forget my inhibitions. The way he was touching me, the quickening circles of his fingers and the low throaty sounds he was making as he pressed himself hard against my thigh, all made me forget.

Edward knew what he was doing—God, did he ever. And my body knew how to react to what he was doing. I forced myself not to think too much about Edward knowing what he was doing—about what that meant. I simply let nature take its course, clinging to him and hiding my face in his neck as I gasped quietly, trembling beneath him.

Fully prepared to feel humiliated afterwards, I kept my eyes closed as I relaxed back against his pillow, but there was no time for embarrassment. Edward moved on top of me and lifted his hips. Reaching for my hand, he pressed my palm against the front of his jeans, moving my hand up and down his erection.

"See what you do to me?"

I looked up at him, wide-eyed.

"Don't be scared," he said. "I won't hurt you."

With my hand nestled between our bodies, he started moving, grinding his hips against me. I watched him, fascinated by the expression of determination on his face, thinking how different guys and girls were. He was unapologetically horny and there was no way he was missing out on the big payoff. His eyebrows furrowed and his lips pursed, as if his whole face was involved in the effort of achieving an orgasm.

"Move your bra out of the way," he panted. I slipped my bra to the side, and he stared unabashedly at my left breast for a moment before dipping his head to suck on my nipple, all the while writhing against my hand. "Oh fuck, you're gonna make me come," he moaned into my cleavage.

He said this as if I was doing something, I mean, _consciously_ doing something to make that happen. I really wasn't. I had no clue what I was doing. This was nothing like what we'd discussed in Health class. I mean, I knew what an ejaculation was, but Edward still had his jeans on. Was this normal? All I could do was follow his lead, and if my hand being squashed between our pelvises, squeezing at him as he rubbed against me was working, then, hell, I guess I_ was_ gonna make him come.

The faster he moved, the more I squeezed, and the more I squeezed, the heavier his breathing became. Then, he lowered his bare chest to mine and pressed himself hard against me. When he froze, swore, and relaxed on top of me and I knew he was finished.

I blinked up at the ceiling, smiling as I contemplated my newfound sexual prowess. Not only had I just experienced my first non-masturbatory orgasm, but I'd helped a boy have one too. This was heady stuff.

My left hand was still stuck between our bodies, but my right hand was free, so I tentatively ran my fingers across his shoulder blade, closing my eyes as I felt his smooth warm skin for the first time. He shivered and made a satisfied moaning sound. I kept moving my hand, tickling with the tips of my fingers, while he purred against my neck.

"Sorry, I'm probably crushing your hand," he finally said, rolling off me.

"It's okay."

I shook my dead arm back to life while he pushed himself up off the bed.

"Um, I'll be back in a sec."

A minute later, I heard running water coming from the adjoining bathroom, and I guessed Edward was cleaning himself up. I fixed my bra and T-shirt and buttoned my jeans, and then I sat up, leaning against the wall as I listened to the end of the song.

"Ooh, my baby, oooh, my baby, let me take you there. Let me take you there. Let me take you there," Robert Plant sang.

The song was Zeppelin's _Kashmir_, of course, but I had no clue what I was listening to that day. All the same, I had a funny feeling I knew exactly what the lyrics were about. I decided there and then that I really liked Led Zeppelin.

...

**Ah, memories. ;)**

**Thanks for reading,**

**R**


	6. Passionate

**Chapter 6 – Passionate**

* * *

"What about this one?" Alice said, tearing the picture out of a magazine and handing it to me.

"I like it," I agreed, examining the model's hairstyle.

"You should take it with you to the salon so the hairstylist knows what kind of cut you want."

"Good idea." I folded the page in half and slid it into my overnight bag.

In less than three weeks, I'd finally be getting my hair cut. I imagined the look on Edward's face when I showed up at his house with a fabulous new hairdo. He was gonna flip. I couldn't wait.

"I'm glad you're staying over," Alice said. "Girls get stupid when they meet a guy. They totally forget about their friends. It's lame."

I jabbed her leg with my big toe. "As if. I'm not going to forget about you, dip shit. You're my best friend."

"You know what I mean. Jeez, I can't believe you have a boyfriend," she sighed punching her pillow. "I feel like such a lame-o."

"You're not a lame-o. Besides, Edward and I didn't even talk about the boyfriend-girlfriend thing. We just kind of hung out."

I thought about the three hours I'd spent at his house that afternoon.

"I have to work all weekend, but I'm off on Monday," he'd said when I was leaving. "Wanna hang out again?"

_Hang out._ Interesting expression. Whatever he wanted to call it, I definitely wanted to do it again. And again and again.

"He didn't ask you to go with him?" Alice asked me.

"Not really. He's kind of laid back about stuff."

"Well, you've got a guy to make out with. Who cares if he didn't officially ask you out?" She dipped her hand into the bag of cheese balls we were working our way through. "So is he a good kisser?"

"He's _such_ a good kisser. He's good at everything."

"Everything?" her mouth stopped moving, mid-chew. "Define _everything._" With my whole body burning at the memory of Edward's touch, I sighed and rolled onto my back, staring at the Duran Duran poster on her closet door. Alice frowned at me as she continued to shove cheese balls into her mouth. "Wait a minute. _Everything _everything? You did it, didn't you? Holy fuck, he popped your cherry!"

"We didn't _do it_, douchebag. All we did was fool around."

"Man, thank God. I was starting to feel like the biggest loser ever. Well, did you at least _come between him and his Calvins_?"

"No. But _he_ did," I said, smiling at the ceiling.

Alice lurched up into a sitting position. She laughed so hard, I was sure I was about to see undigested cheese ball particles flying out of her nose. Several deep gasping breaths later, she took a long swig of Coke, belched soundly and flopped back down on the bed, looking at me expectantly.

"Tell me _everything_."

X-X-X

The next day, I hit the mall with Alice, buying myself a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. She made fun of me, telling me I was a traitor, but hoping that meant she could have Duran Duran's bassist all to herself.

I told her John Taylor was all hers—that I had my very own bass player, thank you very much.

I arrived at Edward's house on Monday afternoon wearing my new shirt and a different pair of Alice's sister's cast-off jeans, doing my best to look the part of the aforementioned bass player's girlfriend—if that's indeed what I was.

While we waited for his brother to leave for the gym, Edward entertained me, taking a turn on each of the instruments in the basement. Watching him sitting at the drum kit, an unlit smoke hanging out of his mouth, his legs spread as he kicked the bass pedal, made me woozy. When he strapped on his bass guitar and slapped his thumb against the strings, my jeans felt as if they were on fire again—but this time, the heat in my pants had nothing to do with me telling lies.

Finally, Emmett thundered down from his bedroom and slammed the front door. Edward's performance came to a swift conclusion. He turned his head, listening for the sound of his brother's truck, which quickly roared to life and peeled out of the driveway.

Leaning his guitar on its stand, Edward smiled at me. "Wanna listen to some tunes?"

Everything solid in my body turned to jelly. I loved _listening to tunes_. It was my new favourite thing to do.

He took my hand and led me to his bedroom, where he flicked on the lamp and selected an LP (Pink Floyd, this time). As he made his way across the room to join me on the bed, he took off his T-shirt, throwing it blindly behind him. I sat up and did the same, draping my shirt over the headboard.

"Getting brave, West-End?" he said, crawling up the bed towards me.

"You're a bad influence on me, I guess."

He wasted no time moving on top of me, nudging my legs apart slightly and coming to rest between them.

"Maybe you're too sweet for a guy like me," he said, his hand slipping inside my bra as he spoke. "What if I ruin you?"

"I don't care," I breathed, lacing my hands in his hair and pulling his lips to mine.

He kissed me and moved his hand down my body, rubbing me through my jeans, working me into a frenzy. Being touched through my jeans was not enough. Not even close to enough. I reached down, trying to pluck my button open.

"Hey, slow down, sweet girl," Edward chuckled. "Where's the fire?"

I resisted the urge to tell him the fire was in my pants. Instead, I concentrated on my button and then my zipper.

He helped me shimmy my jeans down my hips. With his mouth hovering over mine, he slid his fingers inside my panties, stopping right where I needed him to. He smiled as I half-sighed, half-moaned and grabbed his hand, nodding in response to his caresses.

Edward slipping his fingers inside my panties was my new addiction. His fingers and what they could do to me—what they did so well.

So well and so very easily.

I pulled his hair, scratched at his shoulders, latched onto his neck with my teeth and rocked against his hand.

"Fuck, you're so horny," he groaned. "It's making me crazy."

Edward was right. I was insanely turned on and all of a sudden I didn't care that he knew it. Two days before, I'd been self-conscious, almost mortified by the way his touch made me behave, but I let go of my insecurities and discovered that having fewer inhibitions was a hell of a lot of fun. Making it clear what I wanted and letting him know when I was close and what he should do to get me all the way there resulted in much speedier gratification. This was the first lesson of the day.

When I came, I shamelessly held Edward's hand in place, my eyes closed as I hung onto the exquisite pleasure surging between my legs for as long as I could. Finally, I blinked up at him happily, my body tingling and twitching.

"Good one?" he said, kissing me softly.

"Really good," I confirmed.

"My turn?"

I nodded and rubbed him through his jeans, not waiting for him to take my hand and press it against him. My boldness made him smile. My moving hand made him swear. My tongue flicking at the pulse point in his neck made him growl.

"Now who's horny?" I whispered, surprising myself with my boldness. These words earned me a triple shot: smile, growl, swear.

Then he popped his button and undid his zipper. I stilled my fingers, looking up into his eyes. Edward took my hand, guiding it to the waistband of his briefs.

"Only if you want to," he said, searching my expression.

I nodded. "I want to. Show me," I said.

Edward showed me. He was generous in his tutelage. Fair play, he benefitted from his own generosity in spades.

Hand-Jobs 101 went something like this:

"Wrap your fingers around me here." He hissed as I curled my hand around him tentatively. "You can tighten your grip a bit. Firm, but not too rough. Yeah, like that. Yeah, yeah. That's amazing."

I tried to focus on Edward's instructions and reactions instead of getting sidetracked by how incredible it felt to have his penis, this mysterious male body part, paradoxically so silky soft and rigidly hard at the same time, straining against my hand. Although he'd already made me come, I couldn't help pressing myself against his leg while I stroked him. This was the moment when I fully understood the intoxicating pleasure derived from stimulating someone else.

"Slide your fingers down, like this," he coached me. "Ah, fuck, yes, yes, that's it." His breathing spiked and he moaned deeply as I followed his directions. "Just like…oh God, faster," he pleaded. "Your thumb…keep doing that with your thumb. Don't stop, don't stop…fuck you're so sweet…so sweet. Holy FUCK!"

His hand closed over mine as he came. At first I thought I was doing something wrong, but then I realized he was trying to control the direction of his ejaculation, which squirted upwards across his abdomen instead of all over me, as it might have without his intervention.

He was such a good teacher. To give myself fair due: I was an eager pupil.

X-X-X

While Edward washed up, I wandered around his room, stopping to examine the concert ticket stubs, spent lighters, and guitar picks strewn across his dresser. When he came back, he found me in my jeans and bra looking through his milk crates full of LPs. Standing behind me, he slipped his hands under my arms and cupped my breasts.

"When you don't get dressed afterwards, you're begging for a second round, you know that, right?"

"I didn't know that," I said, spinning around and linking my fingers at the nape of his neck. "I have a lot to learn."

"I don't think it'll take you long to figure stuff out. You seem to be a fast learner." He smiled at me slyly and pulled me close, kissing me deeply and passionately. "You're so sexy," he whispered.

I shook my head, most likely an involuntary reaction as opposed to an all-out disagreement. I'd never actually analyzed my own sexuality and had no concept of what I was doing that could be construed as "so sexy."

"Don't shake your head at me, West-End. You're sexy as hell."

I took a step back and looked down at myself. I was standing before him in a bra and tight jeans. Therefore I was sexy?

"I don't really…I mean, I'm not trying to…I don't even know—"

"Exactly," Edward said, interrupting my blithering. "You don't try at all. You just are. You're sweet and pretty, but then you look at me with those eyes—just like that, like you are right now—and you kill me." He placed his hands on either side of my face, bending down to peer into my eyes. "Then there's the way you look and sound when we make out. Such a turn on. So hot. Seriously."

This time I nodded, as if to say, "Okay, I get it" and he smiled, leaning in to kiss me again.

"So are you looking for something in particular?" he said, gesturing beside us at the milk carton. "Something you wanna listen to?"

"Not really. Being nosy, that's all. I wanted to see what other music you have."

"Be my guest," he said, moving aside.

I continued flipping through his LPs. "You have so much Zeppelin."

"Best band of all time. No contest."

"Alice Cooper?" I said, pulling out an album called _The Alice Cooper Show_ and frowning at the cover.

"That's a great album. It's a recording of a live show. We'll have to listen to it sometime."

"Alice Cooper scares me."

"I think that's a good thing. That's the mark of a great artist. Questioning the status quo. That's why I hate pop music and corporate rock. It's so safe. It doesn't challenge anything or anyone's thinking. It's commercial crap."

"Wow, how do you really feel?"

"I know, sorry. My brother calls me militant. I prefer to think of myself as passionate. I love music. I'll go to the mat to defend real artists. I guess I'm protective of the things I love."

I continued flipping through the LPs, but my mind was wandering. All I could think about was how much I hoped Edward would one day love me as much as he loved Led Zeppelin and Alice Cooper, so that he could protect me just as passionately.

... ... ...

***Waves hello to the USA, Canada, UK, France, India, Australia, Ireland, New Zealand, Germany, Lithuania, Singapore, Aruba, Jamaica, Guam, China, Italy, Hong Kong, Spain, Hungary, Brazil, Norway, Malta, Poland, Philippines***

**Wherever YOU are, thanks for reading!**

**R**


	7. Addicted

**Chapter 7 - Addicted**

* * *

A cloud of doom accompanied the arrival of Labour Day weekend, Tuesday morning's seven o'clock wake-up call hovering like a thunder head on the horizon, threatening to ruin everyone's parade. I didn't want to go back to school. I wanted the summer to stretch on endlessly. I wasn't done kicking around the mall with Alice, gossiping while lying on a sleeping bag under the stars in her back yard, experimenting with new makeup techniques in her basement while her parents were out, and dancing around her room to Duran Duran, Madonna and WHAM.

I definitely wasn't finished spending time with Edward, "hanging out," "listening to tunes," and "hacking around," all his favourite euphemisms for the hot and heavy make-out sessions which dominated our time together.

I've said in jest that I was addicted to Edward, or at least to the way he made me feel. Now that I'm older, I'm convinced that may have been true. I was addicted to him the way he'd been addicted to cigarettes, the way other people are addicted to food. Wanting to be with Edward—the repeated pleasure-seeking behavior—it was caused by an electrical signal travelling along a neuron and sparking a chemical reaction in my brain. You see, technically it wasn't my fault. I blame my dopamine neurons.

His tight ass, delicious cinnamon kisses and magical fingers were also largely culpable.

Edward was busy with work and family activities on the Saturday and Sunday of Labour Day weekend, but he begged me to try to get out of the house for a few hours on the holiday Monday so I could visit the Ex one last time with him before the end of the season. I haggled with my parents, pleading for one last evening out "with my friends" and they grudgingly agreed, with the understanding that I was to be home no later than nine since it was a school night.

After he'd worked his last shift at the Polar Express, Edward met me at the gates to the park. It was six-thirty. Three long days had passed since we'd seen each other, and we stood there for a good five minutes, necking and generally making a spectacle of ourselves before remembering where we were and turning to head into the park.

He had our route planned carefully this time. We hit all the tame rides—the Magic Carpet Slide, the carousel, Franny's Fun House, the bumper cars. The choice of rides wasn't important. All I cared about was the closeness of Edward. He held my hand as we walked from ride to ride and stood behind me in the line-ups, his chin resting on my head and his arms wrapped around me, criss-crossing under my breasts. Occasionally, he would pluck imaginary bass strings on my hip, or drum on my stomach as he hummed a song. At one point, he told me I was his favourite instrument. I told him I didn't think he was talking about drumming on my stomach. He winked and agreed, slipping a hand into my front pocket as he kissed me.

On the carousel, we opted to share a two-seater bench instead of riding separate horses, so he could slide his hand up my thigh and pull me in close to his side. In the fun house, he backed me up into the corner of the room with crazy mirrors, kissing me as various warped reflections of our faces laughed back at us. We raced each other down the carpet slide (I won), and on the bumper cars, he chased me around the course in his purple car, crashing into me repeatedly while I shrieked with laughter as I tried to escape from him in my green car.

It was the best time I'd ever had. I felt a flicker of guilt, enjoying myself so much more with Edward than I had with Alice. I forgave myself quickly, deciding that she'd want me to have fun, and knowing she'd feel the exact same way if she were in my shoes.

Once we'd worked our way through half a dozen rides, Edward dragged me to arcade alley, where he blew countless dollar bills, trying his luck at magnet fishing, ring tossing, basketball throwing and numerous other games which he swore were "rigged." It was at the balloon-dart throwing game that he won me the teddy bear. He broke so many balloons, he could have grabbed an enormous panda bear, the top prize.

I shook my head and pointed at a small brown teddy bear. "I want that one," I said.

I kept that teddy bear in my room for years, long after Edward and I had gone our separate ways. When I left for school and my room was dismantled, Eddy the teddy was relegated to a spot at the bottom of a box, not to see the light of day for over a quarter of a century.

X-X-X

I floated through the first four-day week of school, immune to the petty complaints of my peers.

_This teacher gives too much homework, that teacher won't let me sit near my best friend. My locker's nowhere near any of my classes._

Who cares?

I was above all this juvenile griping. I had more important things to think about. Every day I would count the hours until the bell rang so I could run to the subway and make the journey east to Edward's house. Normally, I would have found this routine preposterous, the after-school trek too onerous to maintain. I found it neither preposterous nor onerous.

The adolescent libido is a strange and powerful thing.

During the first week of school, I went to Edward's place every day and then rushed to get home in time for dinner. Alice covered for me without fail, and in return, I tried not to be one of those girls who forgets about their friends like a loser when they're involved with a hot boy.

My after-school "dates" with Edward were far less leisurely than our summertime ones had been. With his brother at football practices until four-thirty and his parents expected home from work by five-thirty, we generally had about an hour alone before Emmett would pull into the driveway and we'd have to clean up and pretend to be watching TV or doing homework together. We quickly realized that feigning an interest in doing anything other than immediately retreating to his room to make out like fiends was a luxury we simply didn't have time for.

By the second week of school, our routine was perfected. On the Monday, I arrived at his house at three-thirty and we made a beeline for his room, where he quickly threw on some music while I leaped onto the bed, tearing off my T-shirt and practically salivating as I anticipated the coming hour.

This time, when Edward turned around after cuing up some Led Zeppelin on the turntable, he didn't crawl up the bed to join me right away. Instead, he plucked off his shirt and then leaned over and worked at my button and zipper before tugging my jeans down my legs and then all the way off. He'd never done this before. Usually my jeans ended up trapped somewhere around my thighs.

My breathing spiked as he slid his hands up my bare legs while moving back up the bed to lie on top of me.

"You have the sweetest tits," he said, slipping my bra strap down and kissing his way across my shoulder. "Fuck, take off your bra? Please?"

I worked at the front clip, while Edward watched my fingers, his eyes glued to my chest as the cups of my bra fell away from my breasts. He lowered his lips to one nipple and then the other, teasing with his tongue and nipping with his teeth while I moved around beneath him, pulling the straps down my arms.

Lying there in my panties with Edward rolling my nipples between his fingers while he kissed me, I tried to remember why I'd been so embarrassed the first time we'd made out. What could have altered my self-confidence so dramatically in the space of so little time?

The answer, of course, was not_ what_, but _who. _

Edward was always telling me how gorgeous I was—how sexy, how I drove him wild. His words didn't merely bolster my confidence: they made me feel completely and utterly worshiped.

"You make me feel so good, Edward," I said, as he lowered his mouth to my nipple again, circling the tender peak with his tongue and stirring that familiar ache between my legs.

He moved to lie beside me, tickled his way down my body with his fingertips and gently cupped me through my panties, a touch that promised a swift end to the throbbing ache that pulsed in the center of my body.

"I do?"

I swallowed and nodded. "Especially when you do that."

So far, each time we'd been together, Edward had merely dipped his fingers into my panties to rub me. Now he slid my panties down my legs, tossing them aside and leaning back on his heels so he could appraise the entire length of my naked body.

"God, you're so fucking sexy," he said, moving to lie beside me again and propping himself up on his elbow. He drew lazy circles on my stomach, watching his fingers as they moved. "Are you scared?"

I gazed at him boldly, imagining what I'd tell Alice later. She was going to freak. "I'm not sure. Should I be scared?" I asked him.

He shook his head, kissing me as the pads of his fingers slid deliciously across my tingling skin towards the wetness waiting between my quivering thighs.

"I want to try something. It's going to feel fucking amazing," he said, gently stroking me, "but let me know if you want me to stop."

He slid his fingers down, lower than he'd ever touched me before, and then I felt the slow steady pressure of his finger pushing inside me. I held my breath, blinking up at him.

"You okay?" he asked, frowning and withdrawing his finger.

"God. Yeah. Do that again." He slowly slid his finger in and out once more. I closed my eyes. A part of his body was moving inside mine. I felt simultaneously vulnerable and empowered and I opened myself up to this most intimate touch, both physically and emotionally. When I opened my eyes, he was looking at me, a curious expression on his face. "Is that what it would feel like?" I said. "If we, you know…"

He shook his head, teasing at my wetness tenderly.

"It definitely won't feel like a finger fuck. You're so tight. You'll feel me way deeper. It'll be great, you'll see."

Excited by the promise of "It'll be great, you'll see," but terrified that he might mean, "It'll be great _in ten minutes when we're doing it_, you'll see," I nodded cautiously.

I wanted to have sex with him—I mean, I could imagine that feeling—Edward pressing himself inside me and filling me completely, his weight on top of me, pinning me down, but I didn't want it to happen that day! I'd made a silent pact with myself that I wouldn't have sex until I was sixteen. All of a sudden this date seemed rather arbitrary, especially since my birthday was a mere three days away, but a pact was a pact.

(Of course, I'd made that pact when the thought of lying naked on a bed with a very hot guy's hand moving between my legs seemed about as likely as a solo trip to the moon. And now there I was, heading straight for the Milky Way).

"What will it feel like for you?" I said.

"With you? Heaven," he said. "Hot and tight and wet. I think about it all the time. I know it'll be mind-blowing." His fingers slipped lower again. "You want more?"

"Yes," I nodded and closed my eyes. "Yes…"

After a few more inward stokes, I relaxed, exhaling a slow steady breath. He moved his finger in time with the music and I rocked against his hand in the same comfortable rhythm.

"Spread your legs a little," he said after a minute or two. I did as he'd suggested. "I'm gonna try two fingers. Let me know if it hurts."

He pushed two fingers inside me, and I moaned and parted my thighs even further, instinct taking over. Again and again his fingers moved in and out. He was ignoring the tempo of the music now, his movements speeding up as my breathing quickened. I was a jumble of contradictions. Make him stop, urge him on, swallow my need to whisper dirty words, say them anyway...

In the end, _feeling_ wiped out my ability to think rationally. Edward's thumb drifted upwards. When his rubbing thumb matched the pace of his thrusting fingers, I spun away, somewhere outside of my body and watched my hips bucking, saw my lips part and heard myself say, "Fuck me, Edward."

I don't know what made me say those words. I didn't mean them in the most literal sense, and thankfully, Edward didn't immediately interpret them as a command or explicit invitation. Nonetheless, those words had a dizzying effect on him. He swore and rubbed himself against my thigh, bringing his ear close to my mouth.

"Say that again," he whispered, his hand moving feverishly between my thighs.

I said it again and again, eventually dropping his name, a simple "Fuck me" repeatedly rolling off my tongue. At last, the words gave way to a cry of pleasure as ecstasy tore through me, leaving me a sweaty, panting mess.

I didn't have time to regret my uninhibited outburst. When Edward started fumbling with his zipper, regret was quickly elbowed out of the way by panic.

"I didn't really mean it," I said, as he pushed his jeans down over his hips. "What I said—I'm not ready. I don't think—"

"Shhh," he said, kissing me, soothing me. "It's okay. Sometimes we say crazy things when we're horny. We won't do it until you're ready. One day. One day, but not today. He guided my hand downwards. "Jack me off? I want to come all over your stomach."

My stomach performed a couple of swift back flips, as if it had heard him utter this deep and dirty desire.

I wrapped my hand around him, trying to remember all the pointers he'd given me during my hand-job lessons. Edward was moaning and hissing within seconds. His hand moved between my legs again, and I found myself in that glorious state of simultaneously giving and receiving pleasure, each of us responding to the speed and movements of the other's hand.

Edward did come all over my stomach. I was vaguely aware of the hot spurts hitting my skin as I whimpered and lifted my hips, seeking the exquisite perfection that his circling fingertips brought me.

That afternoon, I discovered the magnificence of multiple orgasms.

My dopamine neurons had a mighty busy day.

... ... ...

**Iceland and Switzerland! Hi! Nice to see you, too!**

**Hope you're all enjoying. I know I am—I'm positively basting myself in memories. (Rolling over before chapter 8...)  
**

**Thanks for reading.**

**R **


	8. Rites of Passage

**Chapter 8 – Rites of Passage**

* * *

My parents planned to take me out for a special dinner to mark my sixteenth birthday. I was permitted to bring a friend. Obviously, I chose Alice. I didn't go to Edward's house after school that day. We were both disappointed that we wouldn't get to spend time together on my birthday, but I had a very important after-school appointment, one that had been set in stone for weeks.

Alice and I shot out of the school like bullets that day, heading straight to the salon, where I finally got my hair layered and feathered while Alice jumped around the stylist's chair shrieking with excitement.

(I realize in retrospect, that Alice and I spent a goodly amount of time screaming. How we didn't lose our voices daily is beyond me.)

The woman cutting my hair finally banished Alice to a seat in the waiting area, fearing my best friend might impale herself on the scissors if she made a sudden movement in the wrong direction. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her creep back towards the styling chairs, lurking beside a shelf of hair care products so she could continue to watch my transformation. It's possible that Alice was more excited about that haircut than I was. She paid for the cut—part of her birthday gift to me.

My mother appraised me with sad eyes when I walked in the door at four-thirty. Instead of telling me how great I looked (which was the case, in my humble opinion), she said, "Your poor hair."

To this day I don't understand her reaction, nor do I know why she'd been so reluctant to let me get my hair cut. Perhaps she felt as if the last vestiges of my innocence were swept away in that salon when I joined the ranks of the Farrah Fawcett wannabes. The notion that my Marsha Brady hair style was somehow ensuring the continuation of my childhood was wholly irrational. I knew this, but my mother had no idea that I was living a secret life, exploring my sexuality with a boy who was, quite frankly, very experienced and prepared to teach me everything he knew—when I was ready, of course.

My hair was irrelevant.

I often think about my mother's unyielding attitude about arbitrary things. As a parent, I've learned to pick my fights with my own daughter. Carlie wears makeup and streaks her hair with different colours every month, depending on her mood. She also has a nose piercing and a tattoo of a butterfly on her pelvic bone.

These concessions are a small price to pay for her cooperation when it comes to things like always letting me know exactly where she is. She doesn't go out frequently enough at night to necessitate a strict curfew. I've been forced to wrench her phone from her hands to shut down the Tweeting and Facebooking at midnight, but I've never paced around the kitchen at night, wondering where she is.

Granted, it's a completely different world. Context is everything.

X-X-X

We had my sixteenth birthday dinner at my favourite steak and seafood restaurant. Alice and I both had lobster. Dessert was chocolate cake—one my mother ordered and had delivered to the restaurant especially for my birthday. While we ate our cake, I opened my gifts. My parents gave me a gold necklace with a _Sweet Sixteen_ charm on it. My mother smiled at Phil as I unclasped the necklace and put it on, telling me that the necklace had been my stepfather's idea. Alice gave me a curling iron, part two of my birthday gift. Part three was a promise to show me how the hell to use it.

I tried not to obsess over the time, but I became agitated as seven o'clock came and went and I realized I was missing my nightly phone call with Edward. How different things were then. Carlie's cellphone is never far from her reach, her constant contact with friends an absolute necessity. With no such technological advances, I was stuck wondering if I should excuse myself to use the washroom and hunt around for a payphone. In the end I decided Edward would have to wait. If he was content to bide his time while I wrapped my head around losing my virginity, then surely he would wait an hour for a phone call.

We finally arrived home at quarter past eight, and I raced to my room, plugged in my new curling iron, and called Edward.

"Hey, happy birthday, sweet sixteen. I thought you'd forgotten about me," he said.

_Seriously_? Ha!

"Sorry. Out for dinner with my parents and Alice. It just went on and on."

"I missed you after school. I've been thinking about you all day."

"You have?" I smiled at my John Taylor poster. John smirked back at me. As usual.

"I always think about you, Bella. Do you know what it's like lying on my bed, picturing you lying here naked beside me? It's the worst. I miss you so much."

"I miss you too."

"Are you still free tomorrow night?"

"Yeah. I told my parents I was staying at Alice's. She'll sneak me in when I get there so I can stay out later."

"That's cool. I thought we could go to Greenjeans at the Eaton Centre for dinner and catch a movie afterwards. I'll see if Emmett will lend me his truck."

I had a new haircut and Edward was going to take me out for dinner and a movie—a _real date_—and he wanted to pick me up in his brother's truck.

I loved being sixteen.

X-X-X

Edward picked me up at five-thirty on Friday night, a few houses down from Alice's place. He helped me into Emmett's monster of a pickup truck and patted the seat.

"Get over here, sweet sixteen," he said, grinning as I shifted across the bench seat towards him. Slipping his fingers through my freshly styled curls—which Alice had helped me get_ just right_—he made a clicking noise with his tongue. "You know what? _Sweet sixteen_, my ass. You look hot."

Several minutes and one long, steamy kiss later, we were on our way to the Eaton Centre. Edward drove with the window down, his elbow perched on the door frame, his right hand resting comfortably on my left thigh. I didn't think much about it then, but now I cringe at how cavalier we were. Neither one of us wore a seat belt and he was wholly distracted as he drove, rubbing my leg, fiddling with the cassette deck, and turning to smile and shake his head at me as I vamped beside him, tossing my hair and applying coat after coat of lip gloss.

We were both too cool for school. Well, Edward was too cool for school. I was a straight-A student doing my very best to seem too cool for school.

My memory of dinner at Mr. Greenjeans is blurry. Edward gave me my gift as we ate—a meal that I think consisted of hamburgers with Buffalo chips. He apologized as I opened the present, saying he wished it was a better, more expensive gift—jewelry instead of something homemade. I shook my head and reached for his hand across the table as I peered at the mixed tape of "special" songs he'd put together for me. He'd named the tape, "Songs from a Basement in Rosedale."

This collection of songs—everything from Led Zeppelin to Moxy to Pink Floyd—was the soundtrack of my sexual awakening.

Of all the things you'd think I'd have kept in that box of memories, the mixed tape Edward made me for my sixteenth birthday ought to have been one of them.

It wasn't.

X-X-X

Edward took me to see _Oxford Blues_. My recollection of the plot isn't merely fuzzy, it's non-existent. If I didn't still have the ticket stub for the movie in that envelope full of mementos, I wouldn't be able to tell you what we saw. We sat in the back row, his jean jacket spread across our laps as we made out, completely oblivious to the film and the people sitting in the rows in front of us, who must have heard us kissing and breathing heavily behind them.

Going to the movie was a complete and utter waste of money, and I think I told Edward as much as we were leaving, but he insisted that getting felt up (and down) in a movie theatre was an significant rite of passage, and an important way for me to spend part of my sixteenth birthday celebration. I didn't tell him I was offended by his assumption that I'd never engaged in this sort of behavior before. I'd begun to accept the fact that he could probably see right through me.

Apparently, finding a place to park so we could make out in the truck before Edward took me home was another rite of passage. He knew a few out of the way places in the west end of the city and took me straight from the movie theater to one of these darkened parking lots. As soon as he turned off the ignition, he slid across the bench seat, slipped his hand between my legs and immediately started tracing a line up and down the center seam of my jeans while kissing me deeply, his tongue dipping in and out of my mouth in time with the movements of his fingers.

"Edward," I moaned, reaching out to rub him through his jeans.

"Mmm, fuck, yeah. You made me so fucking horny in the theater. My balls are aching. I need to get off so bad."

I'd always thought it was a Hollywood cliché, the whole thing about windows steaming up when a guy and girl make out in a car. It was no cliché. Within minutes, anyone trying to see us through the windows would have been entirely out of luck. This was a good thing, because as soon as we started kissing and groping each other, buttons and zippers flew open and our jeans were down over our hips. Edward maneuvered me onto my back and lay beside me, one hand propping up his head, the other tickling its way down my body and stopping between my thighs.

"I've been thinking about this all day," he said. "Nothing worse than being stuck in class and thinking about the way your clit twitches when I touch you. I was hard all afternoon."

His words alone were enough to provoke a physiological reaction, but when the tips of his fingers grazed me, my hips jerked upwards, the delicate touch resonating in every nerve of my body.

"Oh my God," I sighed.

"You aching too?" he whispered, his lips tugging on my earlobe.

"Mmm hmm," I nodded.

"I can help you with that." He swirled his fingers slowly, watching me struggle to maintain my composure. "I love touching you like this, but you know what I want to do one day?" he said. "I want to put my tongue here." His fingers pressed into me gently. "I want to lick your clit, _right here_. Over and over again. Fuck, I want that so bad. If we weren't in this stupid truck I'd do it right now."

I clung to him, unable to tell him how simultaneously terrifying and amazing that sounded, but shaking with need at the thought of Edward moving down my body, his face between my legs, his tongue darting out to taste me.

Drawing his hand upwards and resting it on my stomach, he leaned over to kiss me. "I thought telling you that might scare you, but you don't look scared."

"I am a little," I confessed. "I kinda don't get why you'd _want_ to do that."

"Because I like to make you feel good, and I know that would blow your mind."

"Isn't it kind of gross, you know…?" I darted my eyes downwards. His fingers were lightly stroking my tummy.

"Hell, no, it's not gross. It's…I don't even know how to explain it. The way a girl tastes…" He shook his head and breathed deeply through his nose. "It's the sexiest thing in the world."

I frowned, not quite sure what to make of this statement which seemed so completely counter-intuitive. How could it taste good? I couldn't even imagine.

"You don't believe me," Edward said. "I swear, I'm not bullshitting you."

With his eyes locked on mine, his hand snuck inside my panties again and slipped downwards. He plunged two fingers inside me, stroking me several times while I held my breath, anticipating the upward movement of his thumb and the impending rush of pleasure. That's not what happened. Instead, he withdrew his hand and brought his fingers to his mouth, slipping them between his lips. He closed his eyes as he tasted his fingers—tasted _me_ on his fingers. It was the most sensual thing I'd ever seen in my life. If I'd thought I was aroused before, this gesture pushed me completely over the edge.

I tugged on his hair and our mouths crashed together hungrily. I placed his hand between my legs. "Make me come, Edward," I said. "Please."

Edward was happy to do my bidding, though not without some rather unwarranted teasing first, which had me arching my back off the seat and pleading with him to move his fingers faster—harder. Finally, he succumbed to my pleas, stroking me with practiced precision, nudging me closer and closer to the brink.

I panted and whimpered, telling him I was close, so close, and he leaned over and kissed me hard, his lips and tongue unyielding, so that I came, moaning into his mouth, which made him spur me on to even greater heights of ecstasy—two orgasms, and then a third—before he finally moved his hand and rested his forehead against my cheek.

"I can't wait to fuck you," he said. "You're gonna go crazy."

"I think that's your imagination talking." I said, stretching my legs out, content and satiated.

"I don't know, West-End. You don't leave much to the imagination. I'm telling you, you're gonna lose your fucking mind when we have sex. It'll be awesome."

"Losing my mind will be awesome?"

"Oh, trust me. It'll be awesome. It'll be fucking insanely awesome." He rubbed his nose against mine. "One day."

I slipped my hand inside Edward's open zipper. "You know how you were saying you want to…you know…taste me? Would you want me to do that to you one day?"

Smiling, he bit down on his bottom lip. "Any guy who wouldn't want a sexy girl to suck him off needs his head examined." He took a deep breath, thrusting against my hand. "Fuck, that feels good. Do you have Kleenexes in your purse?"

"I think so."

With his head thrown back, he gritted his teeth, growling appreciatively. "Good. We're gonna fucking need them."

X-X-X

We pulled up to the curb near Alice's house a little before midnight.

"I had a great time tonight," Edward said.

"I did, too. Thanks for dinner and the movie. I can't wait to listen to the mixed tape."

Edward beckoned me across the seat and onto his lap, shifting me around so that I was straddling him. "I hope you like it," he said.

"I'm sure I'll love it."

_Almost as much as I love you_, I would have added, if I'd thought there was an iota of a chance that he'd reciprocate the sentiment. I had no way to be sure, so I held back. This was one of the few intelligent decisions I made where Edward was concerned.

"You'll think of me when you listen to it?" he asked me.

"Of course I will. I'll think of us."

"Yeah," he smiled knowingly. "You _will_ think of us. You'll think of this…" Edward's hand crept under my shirt as he kissed me, his hips rocking into me gently. "Fuck, why can't I ever get enough of you?" he sighed.

I didn't answer, too preoccupied by the feel of his fingers pinching my nipple and the warmth of his tongue and lips on my neck, too distracted by his moving hips, movements that made me grind against him, shivering and gasping as I imagined the way this would feel if there were no clothes hindering us.

"God, I want you," he groaned. He sounded profoundly frustrated.

I pulled back, hesitantly drawing my lip between my teeth. "Are you tired of waiting? I feel like this is annoying for you."

He frowned and shook his head. "I'm not mad. I can wait. You're worth waiting for. One day, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Sounds like this _one day_ you keep telling me about is gonna be a lot of fun," I said, sliding forwards on his lap again and shamelessly rubbing into his groin.

He ran his thumb along my lower lip, smiling at me with a dangerous glint in his eye. "I promise you, West-End," he whispered, "_fun_ doesn't _begin_ to describe it."

To this day, I'm instantly suspicious of any statement that starts with the words, "I promise…" I'm not much of a fan of the expression "One day," either.

... ... ...

***Wipes condensation off window with sleeve and peers through it.* ****Bench front seats. God, I loved bench front seats. **

**Thanks for reading. See you next weekend.  
**

**R**


	9. Defeated

**Chapter 9 - Defeated**

**August 23, 2012**

* * *

I spend the three days while Carlie's away at her dad's moping around the house in a nostalgia-induced stupor. I gorge myself on the memories, stuffing myself with every imaginable reminiscence until I'm almost sick with regret, and I feel as if I need to purge myself to make room for the run-of-the-mill angst that has to be dealt with on a daily basis.

Single-parenting, trying to stay on top of bills, housework, meal planning and appointments, and attempting to figure out what I'll do with the rest of my life, both professionally and personally—this is my usual line-up of anxiety producing topics. Throwing emotionally wrenching memories into the mix is far from helpful.

Oddly enough, though, thinking about my short-lived relationship with Edward has made me re-evaluate one thing about my ex-husband. I realize I should have appreciated Mike's work ethic more than I did. When I contemplate Edward's fickleness and self-confessed fear of growing up, I wonder what would have happened if we'd stayed together—maybe marrying eventually. Would I have spent my life trying to cajole a reluctant man-boy into facing his responsibilities?

At least Mike was always prepared to step up and make something of himself. Unfortunately, where Edward had dreaded the thought of growing up and having to behave responsibly, my ex-husband had embraced the nine-to five—and beyond. He'd obsessed over his work, spending every waking moment trying to build his business, always traveling, fixated on this nebulous future where we would need reams and reams of money, for whatever reason.

"One day, you'll thank me," he used to say. "You'll see. One day, when we're rolling in it, you'll understand what all this hard work was for. I'm doing it for you. For _us_."

There was that expression again, the one I so despised. _One day._

Mike had been right, though. Whatever it was that he did (which I never did fully understood, computers being my arch-nemesis), he was good at it, was highly in demand, and made a ton of money. I suppose I was grateful for the financial security and comfortable lifestyle that went along with having a fabulously successful freelance computer programmer for a husband. His salary more than amply supported us, allowing me to stay home and look after the house, prepare gourmet meals, and devote myself entirely to Carlie's upbringing. But driving the best cars and rattling around alone in a well-appointed kitchen does not make for a terribly successful marriage.

While it's been horribly depressing revisiting my ill-fated relationship with Edward, it's also brought into focus the one essential ingredient that was missing from my marriage.

Passion.

X-X-X

When Carlie returns from her father's house after her three-day visit, she looks completely worn out. I wheedle from her the fact that she hardly slept the whole time because her dad was oblivious to her nocturnal habits. Two a.m. texting sessions are strictly forbidden in my house, and she often leaves her phone on my dresser at night to avoid the temptation of checking to see which of her friends is still up and interested in chatting through to the wee hours.

She actually seems relieved to be home and eager for a decent night's sleep. Over dinner, she also confesses that she hasn't eaten a vegetable since she left on Monday.

"Did you have pizza every day?" I ask, trying to maintain an inquisitive tone, rather than giving in to the accusatory one creeping up behind my words.

"No," Carlie says, shoving a piece of roasted red pepper into her mouth. "We had pizza on Tuesday but we had pasta last night. Fettucine Alfredo with chicken."

"Your father made Fettucine Alfredo? Huh."

Carlie stops chewing for a few seconds, then resumes and lowers her eyes. "Jessica made it. Jessica's his girlfriend."

"His _girlfriend_?"

Stunned, I put down my knife and fork and dab my mouth with my napkin, counting to ten in my head. In the year her father and I have been apart, I've tried not to make Carlie feel like she's some sort of double agent, responsible for reporting back details of Mike's life. Not that she spends enough time with him to get a clear picture of what's happening with him anyway because more often than not, he cancels their planned weekends, frequently called away on business trips. When he does pull himself together and take Carlie for a weekend, the first few hours after she returns home, we circle each other warily, she unsure of how much to tell me, and I leery of asking too much.

I take a slow sip of my wine and focus on the parts of Mike's new relationship status which are truly important. "I hope your dad didn't ignore you while she was there. Do you like her? Was she nice to you?"

"Dad was fine and she was all right."

I watch Carlie shrug and move her food around on her plate. "It's okay to like her, Car. If you like her, you're not betraying me."

This is difficult to say, but I know it's the truth. My daughter ruminates on what I've said and then she revises her earlier claim.

"She's pretty nice. At first I wasn't sure. She looks like one of those chicks who'll be kind of ditzy, but she's really smart. She works in computers too."

"So she works with your dad? Is that how they met?"

I'm verging on prying now, but my curiosity beats back my good sense. Carlie shakes her head, frowning as she spears three green beans and tries to wrap her mouth around them.

"Dad hasn't been working much in the last month or so. Anyway, they met on-line, on LinkedIn."

Both parts of this statement shock me, but it's the latter that makes me choke on my wine. "What? Your father joined an on-line dating service?"

"You really need to learn more about computers, Mom. Everyone knows what LinkedIn is. It's not a dating service. It's like an on-line business community. Kind of like a web version of a business card. "

"Oh."

Chastened, I return to my eggplant parmigiana, tossing around what I've just learned. Mike is in a relationship. He's probably having sex. Exciting beginning-of-relationship sex.

I, on the other hand (usually the right one), am not.

"You should totally get a LinkedIn in profile, Mom," Carlie tells me, nodding her head sagely. "I can show you how it works. It's way more professional than Facebook, but you can still do searches and stuff. Find people."

"There's no one I'm particularly interested in finding," I say. "Besides, what do I need with an on-line business card?"

She looks back at me blandly. _Okay, whatever_, her face says.

"Oh, can I go shopping with Mallory tomorrow for back-to-school clothes? Dad gave me a hundred bucks."

"Sure. Sounds like a great idea."

I'm not surprised by this monetary gift. Mike has been extraordinarily generous with me—with both of us—since the divorce, but being married to him for all those years has bred a degree of cynicism that allows me to understand his generosity is usually borne of guilt.

Post-divorce, there's been a clear correlation between his monetary gifts and extended business trips or "write-off" weekends that he can't possibly spend with his daughter due to a crushing deadline. A lengthy business trip usually corresponds to a two-hundred and fifty dollar cheque and the suggestion that Carlie put the money towards her school fund—_or whatever_. A last minute cancellation of a weekend visit is often accompanied by a bank transfer from his account to hers—_buy yourself something nice for school_, the accompanying suggestion.

Though I understand Mike's modus operandi, I don't tell Carlie to expect the hundred bucks to buy her father a few weeks of free time. I also don't ask her if Jessica was there when Mike had handed over the cash, his feeble attempt to look like Father of the Year.

X-X-X

Because Carlie crashes at 10:30, she wakes far earlier than she normally would the next morning. Had I known she would be appearing in the family room at 8 a.m., I wouldn't have allowed her to find me lying on the couch, staring at the picture of me and Edward.

"What are you doing?"

Her voice startles me, and as I lurch upwards, Eddy the teddy topples from the crook of my arm onto the floor.

"What's that?" she says.

We both reach for the bear at the same time, but she beats me to it. I sit back, defeated.

"It's nothing. I was looking through some things while you were at your dad's. I found it at the bottom of one of my old boxes."

She drops the bear on the coffee table, plucks the picture from my hand and squints at it. "Whose wedding is that? Do I know these people?"

"It was one of grandma's cousins. I didn't really—"

"Oh my God! That's you in the background, right? Look at your hair! It's insane! How old were you?"

"Sixteen. That was about a week after my sixteenth birthday."

"So, who's the guy? That's not dad."

I can't help laughing. "No. That's _definitely_ not your father."

"Well, who is it?"

Carlie perches on the arm of the couch and peers at the picture intently. I sigh and cover my eyes with my hand.

"Mom, come on. You made me tell you all about Keith when I had that crush on him, and he didn't even know I was alive. This guy totally knows you're alive. Look at the way he's staring at you. He's so into you."

_Oh, the irony. _

"His name was Edward," I say, taking the picture from her and rubbing my thumb across the shiny surface. "That's the night we broke up."

... ... ...

**Thanks for taking the time to read. Have a good weekend.**

**R**


	10. Sorry

**Chapter 10 - Sorry**

* * *

The day after my birthday date with Edward, our doorbell rang at ten-thirty in the morning. I was in my room folding laundry. My mother answered the door and then called me down the stairs. When I arrived in the kitchen, she was standing in front of the stove holding a long narrow box, cradling it like a baby.

"This was delivered. It's for you," she said, holding the box out to me, a quizzical expression on her face.

I considered escaping to my room, but there was no avoiding telling her what was inside so I put on a brave face and slipped the lid off the box right there at the kitchen table. Nestled in pink tissue paper, there was a single white rose. The accompanying card had no names on it, no clear identifying marks, but I knew it was from Edward. It said two words:

_One day._

I waited for my mother to interrogate me. _Who's that from? What does that card say? Is there something I need to know?_

She didn't ask any of those questions. She tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, and then she said, "What a beautiful rose. Let me get you a stem vase."

X-X-X

I tried to call Edward to thank him for the rose. No one picked up. I kept trying. Every time I called, the phone rang and rang. Finally, at five o'clock, his mother answered. She told me he'd been called in by Long and McQuade for an interview. They'd hired him on the spot and kept him there for the rest of the day to train him.

I was happy for him, of course. This was his dream job. Unfortunately, his dream job interfered with my addiction. If I couldn't be with him, I at least needed to talk to him. I glumly accepted the unfortunate reality that I'd have to share him with his new employer and called Alice, being careful not to make her feel like sloppy seconds. I proposed a movie. It was just the thing I needed to help me take my mind off how much I was missing Edward. Alice told me she'd made plans to sleep over at Angela Webber's house.

That was the moment I understood I'd become one of _those girls _after all. As I thought about my conversations with Alice over the preceding weeks, I realized she _had_ been talking about Angela more and more whenever we were together. I'd been too busy prattling on about Edward at the time to really take notice.

X-X-X

Edward didn't call me back when he got home on Saturday night. He didn't call the next day either. I took it upon myself to call him on Sunday evening. Again, I spoke to his mother. In fact, I spoke to his mother on the phone numerous times following the delivery of the white rose. Our conversations went something like this:

**Sunday night:**

"Hi, is Edward there?

"I'm sorry, he's out jamming with his friends."

"Okay. Can you ask him to call me back?"

**Monday night:**

"Hello, may I speak with Edward, please?"

"I'm sorry, he's gone out to the driving range with his brother."

"Oh. Tell him I called? It's me, Bella."

**Tuesday night:**

"Hi, it's Bella, is Edward around?"

"I'm sorry, dear, he's still at Long and McQuade. He's working a little later tonight."

"Right. His new job. Well, let him know I called? Thanks."

I tried to reach him all week, and the story was the same. He wasn't home for one reason or another, and his mother was sorry.

I was sorry, too. I was sorry I'd fallen for him. I felt like an idiot because despite our many intimate moments, despite the awesome dinner and movie date and the rose, and regardless of all his words to the contrary, it was clear to me that he must have become bored with me.

I watched the white rose bloom and thrive, and then by Wednesday, the petals began to gently curl at the edges. Soon the rose would wither and die. I felt certain that my heart would shrivel up right along with it. How could I have been so naïve?

X-X-X

Edward finally called me back on Thursday night. I was frosty; he was despondent.

"What's going on?" I asked him. "I've been calling you all week. Why haven't you returned my calls?"

"I was busy," he said. "It's been a shit week."

"Maybe if you'd called me, I could have tried to cheer you up."

"Yeah, maybe."

His tone wasn't even remotely convincing. He sounded awful. I tried to soften my approach.

"So, I got the flower. I wanted to thank you. That's why I was calling."

"It wasn't a big deal. Just something extra for your birthday. The tape was a lame idea. I felt bad."

"The tape's not lame, Edward. I love it. I listened to it every day this week."

"Okay. Well, cool."

"So, your mom told me you got the job at Long and McQuade," I said, trying to draw him out.

"Yeah."

"Congratulations."

He laughed. It was an abrupt, cynical laugh. It made the hair on my arms stand up. "Congratulations," he repeated.

"Aren't you glad? I thought you really wanted that job."

"Yeah." I heard him sigh. "Yeah, you're right. It's great."

"Edward, what's wrong? You don't sound like yourself."

He huffed out another breath. "I'm fine. Like I said, it was a shitty week, that's all."

"Well, when can I see you? I could swing by after school tomorrow."

"I have to work."

"Oh. Okay." I forged ahead, unthinking. "I'm going to a wedding with my parents on Saturday. Maybe you could come."

I had no right to suggest this without asking permission. The words sort of tumbled out, desperation pushing aside common sense.

"I have to work until eight on Saturday night."

"You could come by afterwards. For the dance."

"I don't know. Maybe."

I allowed a moment of silence to stretch between us before asking the inevitable.

"Edward, did I upset you or something? You sound like you're mad at me."

This time instead of sighing, he growled, a sound of utter and complete exasperation.

"I'm not mad at you, West-End." As soon as he used my nickname, I closed my eyes, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Look, I'll try to make it to the reception thing, okay? Where's it being held?"

I gave Edward directions and then we hung up. I felt no more comforted at the end of our conversation than I'd been before he called.

Even though I sensed something had shifted between us, I hoped against hope that he'd come to the reception, telling myself he'd had a bad week and was feeling grumpy, a bad mood that would pass. I missed him so much, my stomach ached. Little did I know, missing him was about to become a full-time occupation.

X-X-X

"Mom, can I bring a friend to the wedding?"

I asked this on Friday night as I helped my mother dry the dinner dishes.

"It doesn't work that way, sweetie. Our invitation specified three guests."

"I don't mean for dinner. I mean after dinner. It's gonna be boring without someone to hang out with."

"The Newtons will be there. Don't you go to school with their son, Mike?"

I rolled my eyes. "Mike Newton is a total geek, Mom."

"He's very smart. Take it from me. Those are the types of boys who grow up to really make something of themselves. Don't dismiss him so easily."

"I can't force myself to like someone. I don't get why it would it be so awful to invite a friend to hang out with after dinner. It won't cost Tammy and Mark anything."

"Your cousins are sitting at our table. You'll be fine."

I rolled my eyes. "They drive me crazy."

My mother pursed her lips, then she softened. "Tell Alice you'll call her from the venue to let her know if it's okay. I'll talk to Tammy and see if she'll mind."

I fumed quietly as I dried the pots and pans, afraid to tell my mother that Alice wasn't the one I wanted to invite.

I also hated myself.

Because Alice wasn't the one I wanted to invite.

X-X-X

The wedding was a painful affair. Mike Newton shot me a few vaguely curious looks during the ceremony while I kept my eyes trained on the bride and groom, on the wedding party, on the flowers, on the bald heads in front of me—on anything but him.

In my head, I replayed the mixed tape Edward had made, closing my eyes occasionally, thinking about him, imagining his lips and his hands—his body pressing against mine—my fantasies providing a welcome escape from the boredom of the ceremony, the family pictures, the receiving lines, the cocktail hour, and the dinner.

As we worked our way through our meal, I struggled to choke down a few mouthfuls of chicken and potatoes. Though I was desperate to see him, I regretted inviting Edward. I had no clue what I'd tell my parents if he did arrive. The thought made me positively ill.

"Tammy says you're more than welcome to invite Alice to the dance later," my mother had told me as we'd driven from the church to the banquet hall.

I didn't tell her about Edward—this boy I'd been dating for four weeks—a boy she didn't even know existed.

I promised myself I'd explain. Once she and Phil had consumed a few drinks and were feeling mellow, I'd mention that my date for the evening was a friend—not Alice—a boy. A boy who was a friend, but certainly not a boyfriend.

No, no. Not a boyfriend at all.

My mother would see right through me. She'd have a fit. She'd scold me for leading her to believe I'd wanted to invite Alice. I imagined her making a scene in the middle of the reception, blaming my rebellious streak on my new haircut and possibly grounding me there and then. What if I told them Edward was coming and then he bailed? I'd have gotten myself in trouble all for nothing.

No. I'd decided to wait and see if he showed up and figure things out as I went.

As it turned out, luck (and the table arrangement) was on my side. As the speeches started after dinner, everyone turned their chairs to the front of the room. Since I was behind my parents, I crept away from the table and snuck out of the dining room, stationing myself in the front vestibule.

I heard the speeches end inside the hall, and then the music started. I knew my mother was probably wondering where I was, but I couldn't tear myself away from the doors. I wanted to be there if Edward arrived.

He arrived.

He arrived at nine o'clock, looking impossibly sexy in black jeans, a white dress shirt and a skinny black leather tie, a jacket hooked on his finger and draped over his shoulder. I bolted out of the lobby and rushed into his arms on the pathway outside. He made a little grunting noise, as if I'd knocked the wind out of him.

I stood on my toes and threw my arms around his neck, kissing him. At first he kissed me back, his tongue slipping inside my mouth and melting against mine. I tasted cinnamon, but then, behind the sweet spiciness, the unmistakable taste of cigarettes. He pulled away, rubbing his lower lip with his thumb.

"It's so good to see you. I missed you," I said, peering up at him, my pride long forgotten.

"I'm sorry."

_I'm sorry_. That's what he said. Not, _I missed you, West-End._ Not, _It's great to see you, too._

No. He told me he was sorry.

"You've been smoking," I said, for lack of something better to say.

He shrugged. "Just a few here and there."

"I thought you wanted to quit for me."

"Don't bitch at me, Bella. I don't need it right now."

"I'm not." I shook my head. "I'm not. I was proud of you for quitting. That's all."

"I've been pretty stressed. New job. This and that. I couldn't hack it anymore. The cravings were making me nuts."

"Maybe you can try again when things settle down?" I was grasping at straws. I had no idea what had him so rattled—what things in particular needed to settle down. "Do you want to go inside? We could dance. The DJ's pretty good."

"Aren't your parents in there?"

"Yeah. I can scout around first. There's a lot of people. We can blend in." I grabbed his arm and tugged him towards the entrance to the hall. He stood behind me while I surveyed the room. "They're way over there," I said, pointing in the direction of my parents who were on the other side of the dance floor, talking with a crowd of people, most of them relatives I barely knew.

My mother was laughing riotously. Apparently, my inexplicable disappearance wasn't terribly distressing. She probably thought I'd taken off with my cousins.

I latched onto Edward's sleeve, dragging him to a crowded spot on the dance floor, far away from my parents' line of vision. The song _In the Air Tonight_ had just started. As much as I wanted to simply melt into Edward's arms and ignore the tension between us, with Edward's coolness and Phil Collins singing so ominously about some mysterious thing coming in the air, it was nearly impossible to relax.

I nestled my face in the crook of his neck, trying my best to recapture the connection between us. It didn't work. In fact, I felt his spine stiffen. I leaned back, examining his face. You'd think his dog had died or something. He was a picture of misery.

"Tell me what's going on, Edward. Has something happened?"

We stopped dancing, and Edward led me to the edge of the dance floor, where we stood uncomfortably. He reached out and ran his fingers absently along the ruffle of my dress, where it curled around my hip.

"I can't do this," he said, shaking his head slowly.

"Can't do what?"

"Bella, look, you're so good and kind and sweet, and I really like you…"

I blinked up at him, already feeling the weight of the next word crushing my soul.

"But it's just…"

And there it was.

_But_.

"It's just…it's bad timing," he said, still playing with the ruffle at my waist. "I don't think we should see each other anymore. No, that's not it. I _can't_ see you anymore."

"But…I don't understand."

That's all I could manage. A week ago, he'd wanted me desperately. How could it be over? It made no sense.

"It's just how it has to be. I'm sorry."

His hand remained on my waist for another moment, while I gaped at him, uncomprehending. Little did I know, but across the room, my mother was taking a picture of the newlyweds dancing. Few people can claim to have the moment of their very first heartbreak captured on film, but there we were, gazing at each other in the background. A week later, I would surreptitiously steal that picture from the envelope before my mother had a chance to notice me staring blankly at a boy who'd just dumped me.

"I should go," Edward said, leaning over to hug me. He held me close for a few seconds and then he stepped back, smiling sadly. "Bye, West-End."

That was all he said. I said nothing in return—unless a choked sob counts as a word. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away.

That was the last I saw of him.

X-X-X

Edward didn't take my virginity, but he did steal my innocence. This was an unpleasant realization, and perhaps, in hindsight an overly harsh assessment. At the time, though, I was devastated. He'd shown me that even if I _was_ kind and good and sweet, it was still possible to mean far, far less to a boy than he meant to me.

_He didn't want me._

I was irrational in my heartache. I returned to my parents' table, looked around the room and saw my mom leading my step-dad towards the dance floor. I surreptitiously knocked back my mother's full glass of red wine and followed it up with Phil's mixed drink. (It was a rye and ginger and I shuddered as it made its quick fiery journey down my esophagus). Finally, I stole a cigarette from Phil's open pack, curled my fingers around it and made my way outside, stopping to pick up a book of matches at the bar.

I sought out a dark corner behind the hall, smoking as I leaned against the wall. I stared up at the three-quarter moon, dragging deeply on the cigarette and making myself dizzier with every puff. Or perhaps I was queasy, the two drinks I'd just polished off slopping around with the meager dinner I'd ingested. I half-coughed, half-sobbed as I puffed.

"You shouldn't smoke, you know. I've seen pictures of people with tongue cancer and stuff. It's really gross."

I squinted into the darkness. Mike Newton, book in hand, was walking out of the deep shadow of a nearby tree.

"Oh, yeah? Well you shouldn't read in the dark. It causes early onset cataracts," I shot back, sniffing back my tears.

I was making this up, but I had to admit, my BS sounded pretty plausible. Newton flicked on a flashlight and shone it at the cover of the book.

"Huh. Guess you came prepared," I said.

"Prepared to be bored out of my mind? Yeah, I guess."

He wasn't bored for long. Three minutes later, I was leaning over a nearby garbage can puking my guts out. He may have been a dweeb, but he held my hair back as I vomited and then he deposited me on a bench outside and went into the hall to cover for me with my parents, telling them I wasn't feeling well. He claimed he was feeling a little queasy too, blaming some potentially undercooked chicken.

Not the most romantic first encounter, but this was the beginning of my on-again, off-again courtship with Mike Newton, the boy who'd eventually become my husband and the father of my beautiful daughter.

... ... ...


	11. Phantom

** Chapter 11 – Phantom**

**Sunday August 26, 2012**

* * *

"What are you staring at?"

"Hmmmm?" I turn to look at my daughter absently. "What did you say?"

"Out the window. What are you staring at?"

"Nothing. I'm not staring at anything. I'm scrubbing this pan."

"You're not scrubbing anything, Mom," Carlie says, joining me at the sink. "You've been standing there for five minutes with your hands floating in the water, staring out the window."

I shake my head as I pick up the scouring pad and give the frying pan a quick scrub, but she's right. I just lost five minutes to the past. I was remembering the week after my breakup with Edward, thinking about how devastated I'd been—too distraught to eat, too preoccupied to focus on school work, and far too miserable to spend time with Alice, who, despite being a great friend, seemed a little too pleased to be rid of Edward and his monopoly on my time.

I'd ended up sequestering myself, licking my wounds in private. Losing Edward was like quitting a bad habit cold turkey, and it had its own set of nasty side effects.

"You should try to find him," Carlie says, taking the frying pan from me and rubbing a dishtowel across it aimlessly.

"Who? What are you talking about?"

"The guy." She bobs her head at the couch where Eddy the teddy still sits squashed beside a cushion. I should have put it away. "I've seen you looking at the picture a lot the last few days. You're thinking about him."

It's true. Since telling Carlie an abbreviated and highly censored account of my relationship with Edward, I've found myself ruminating more and more on the month we spent together, trying to puzzle out what went wrong—more specifically, what I'd done wrong.

Carlie examines my face curiously. Since when has she been so interested in my emotional landscape?

"Sometimes you wonder what happened to people, that's all," I say. "People you knew when you were young. You'll see what I mean as you get older."

"I'm totally opening a LinkedIn account for you," she says, tossing the dish towel on the counter and making a beeline for her laptop.

I quickly dry my hands and follow her to the dining room. "Please don't, Car. You know I'm not interested in computers. I won't use it."

"You don't have to use it," she says, fixing her eyes on the screen in front of her while she types. "I'll do it for you." I can see I'm fighting a losing battle. "I don't know why you're so anti-computer, Mom. You said yesterday you're thinking of going back to school or taking some courses. If you do that, you'll have to use a computer whether you like it or not."

I cross my arms and frown. She's got me there. I watch her type, click the mouse, wait, then type some more. I feel incompetent. I have no idea what she's doing.

"Last name?" Carlie says, her eyes flashing up to mine.

"What do you mean?"

"The Edward guy. What was his last name?"

Reluctantly, I move around the dining room table and perch on a chair beside her. "Cullen. His name was Edward Cullen."

Her fingers fly across the keyboard and then she's staring at the screen, waiting. Within five seconds, the screen fills with images and Carlie clicks on something and then angles the laptop towards me.

My heart comes loose of its moorings and crashes around in my chest cavity because just like that, his face is right in front of me—Edward, a shot of him from the waist up dominating a quarter of the screen space. Twenty-eight years have passed, years which have brought creases to his eyes, lines to his forehead, and a touch of gray to the hair at his temples—but at least he still _has_ hair at his temples.

I wonder how quickly I'd be able to move on from this moment if forty-something-year-old Edward were fat and bald. It's a moot point because he's not. Frankly, he looks incredible—ruggedly handsome, whiskery and tanned, his green eyes as devilish as ever. His arms are crossed. I glance at his left hand. He's not wearing a ring.

I'm doomed.

"Is that him?" Carlie says.

I nod. "Yes." My voice escapes as a breathy whisper. "Yes, that's him."

Carlie's phone pings in the other room and she leaps up to retrieve it. "He's pretty hot for an old guy, Mom," she calls back to me over his shoulder.

"He is, isn't he?" I say, more to myself than to her.

Carlie returns to the dining room reading something on her phone as she walks. "Dad wants to know if I can go there next weekend. He said he knows it's Labour Day, but technically it's his weekend, so..."

She shrugs, waiting for my reaction. I'm more than a little shocked at her father's request. After the cash gift, I was sure Mike was going to drop off the map for a few weeks. I'm also a little disappointed. Carlie's only been home from her dad's house for three days as it is, and I'd been looking forward to spending the long weekend with her. Do I dare shut Mike down, though? His renewed interest in spending time with his daughter is heartening.

"I think it's great that your dad wants to see you before school starts. If you'd like to go, I'm fine with it."

"Okay." Carlie wanders away, tapping out a message on her phone. I turn my attention to the screen in front of me again, my eyes darting from the picture to the words underneath.

_Edward Cullen's Overview. _

_Current: Owner and managing director of Edge of Sound Music Studio. Private and group lessons, conservatory prep courses, concert space, recording capabilities. _

_Contact info…_

I close my eyes, telling myself I mustn't read the contact info. Ten seconds is all I manage before my eyelids revolt, and I'm frantically scanning the rest of the words.

X-X-X

Carlie's invited two of her girlfriends to sleep over. They arrive at seven and immediately disappear into the basement, sleeping bags, junk food and a giant bottle of Coke in tow. Within minutes, I hear them laughing and singing along to some awful pop song—a bunch of boys crooning about what makes a girl beautiful.

Edward would hate this music. Manufactured corporate pop. Crappy mainstream garbage. That's what he'd say.

Yes, I've been aware of Edward's whereabouts for all of twenty-seven minutes, and I'm already reevaluating my daughter's musical taste in the context of Edward's artistic inclinations. I'd always put his strong opinions about music down to teenage masculine bravado, but obviously I was wrong. He's parlayed his love of music into what appears to be a successful business—a studio which offers music lessons and rents out concert space. I'm impressed.

I'm also impressed by his strong jawline and tightly muscled forearms. Fair play, it doesn't take much to impress me these days…

I grab the phone to make my weekly Sunday night phone call to my mother, but instead of flaking out on the couch with a glass of wine in hand, my usual practice when I phone her, I take my wine with me into the dining room and park myself in front of the laptop. I try not to let the picture of Edward distract me, but my efforts are feeble, and frankly, a waste of time. Why else am I sitting in front of the screen if not to stare at his picture?

"How's things at the trailer park?" I ask my mother, moving the mouse around the screen, as if doing so will somehow animate the picture. I slide the cursor across Edward's hair. His hair doesn't move. I want to touch his curls—want to feel his hair slipping between my fingers, like it used to when we'd roll around together on his bed.

I stare at Edward's picture during my entire conversation with my mother, my mind wandering the whole time. When we hang up, I realize my mom might have told me Florida had broken free of the mainland and started drifting out into the ocean for all the attention I'd been paying as she'd talked. I'm the worst daughter in the world.

Half an hour later, I'm on my second glass of wine and I'm still staring at the screen. I fixate on the image for so long, that after a while, this grown-up version of Edward starts to blend with the memories of the boy I once knew.

I'm venturing into dangerous territory. Computers are clearly the Devil's handiwork.

Around the time I finish my second glass of wine, a warning message pops up at the bottom of Carlie's laptop, telling me there's only 11% battery left and I'd better plug-in or the laptop will hibernate. I have no clue where she keeps her power cord. A quick scan of her room proves useless. It's not in plain sight. There's no way I'm going downstairs to ask her where she keeps it. For one thing, I don't want to intrude on her girl time, but asking her to plug in the laptop is bound to lead to questions I don't want to answer.

Instead, I quickly jot down the address and phone number of Edward's studio and stuff the folded piece of paper in my purse. I turn off Carlie's laptop and then I pour myself a third glass of wine.

I need to talk to Alice.

X-X-X

"Guess who I found on LinkedIn?"

"Jon Bon Jovi!"

I grimace and take a sip of my wine. "Jon Bon Jovi? Alice, where the hell did you come up with that?"

"I don't know. That's the first name that came into my head. Wouldn't that be great, though? If you could type in his name and find out where he lives and hook up with him? Dude is still looking mighty fine."

"Okay, I'm not trying to hook up with Jon Bon Jovi. You're way off base. Not even close. Well, now that I think of it, you're a little close. I mean, you're in the right decade."

"I'm sorry, you'll have to give me a hint. I have no clue what the hell you're talking about."

"Zeppelin fan. Tight jeans. Hot as hell. Polar Express…"

"Wait, what!? Edward? You tracked down Edward _first-I'll-screw-you-and-then-I'll-screw-you-over_ Cullen?"

"Okay, for starters, I didn't track him down, Carlie did. And secondly, he didn't screw me. You know that."

"But he did get in your pants and then totally screw you over," Alice points out.

I had to give her that. "True on both counts."

"Okay, back up a bit here. What's Carlie doing tracking down your first crush?"

I get Alice up to speed, but I don't remind her that Edward had been way more than a crush. No point ripping open that old wound.

"Where did this all come from? Why now?" she asks.

I tell her about my jaunt down memory lane, inspired by the souvenirs I'd found in the box—the phone number on the piece of cigarette pack, the rose petals, the teddy bear.

"I can't believe you kept all that stuff."

"I guess I couldn't ever bring myself to throw it away."

"Wow." That's all she says. I've stunned her into silence.

"What do you think I should do?"

"Do? What do you mean _do_? There's a do-something option?"

Of course Alice doesn't understand where this is all coming from. She hasn't been inside my head for the last week, reliving that month in the fall of 1984—to this day the most passionate four weeks of my life. It's a sad commentary, really. Neither my marriage nor a single one of the relationships I had in university during the couple of years Mike and I were taking a break came close to matching the excitement of my relationship with Edward.

I'd put it down to the novelty of sexual experimentation, but I know that's not the explanation. It doesn't matter how much you like someone, you can't fabricate chemistry. Edward and I clicked. That's all there was to it.

"I know it seems crazy," I tell her. "I guess I'm wondering what would happen if I got in touch with him."

"Oh, Bella. I get that you're lonely, but I don't think this is the answer. We've talked about this. You need to get out, meet people. Maybe get a job, or at least some hobbies where you can connect with people. Chasing some phantom memory isn't the answer."

"It's not like that."

"It sure sounds like it to me."

"It's not a _phantom_ memory, Alice. I remember the way I felt with Edward. I've never felt that with anyone, certainly not with Mike. I can't help thinking I settled when I married Mike, you know?"

"You shouldn't say stuff like that. Things may have gone to Hell in a hand basket, but if you didn't marry Mike, you wouldn't have Carlie."

"I'm not saying I wish I hadn't married him. You know Carlie's my life. I'm just saying that sometimes I wonder what I missed out on in my marriage. You don't understand. You and Jasper are soul mates. Anyone can see you're meant to be together. I don't feel like I had that with Mike, but I remember feeling that connection with Edward. You can't blame me for being curious about what he's up to."

I hear her sigh. "I'm sorry. It's not fair for me to question your feelings, but God, that was a lifetime ago. This seems kind of crazy to me. I guess I don't want you to do anything rash. I'd hate for you to get hurt."

I'm in the midst of assuring Alice that I have no intention of being rash, or getting hurt when our conversation is brought to an abrupt halt by Carlie and her friends emerging from the basement. They've decided they want to make cookies. I'm relieved to have an excuse to hang up. I don't know why I thought Alice would be excited to hear my news about Edward. It's not like she's going to scream and jump up and down. We're not sixteen anymore.

I spend the next few minutes rooting around in the pantry for the chocolate chips, brown sugar, vanilla extract and flour, helping Carlie and her friends assemble everything else they'll need before escaping to my bedroom, leaving the girls to turn the kitchen into a disaster zone. I've been in my room for all of five minutes when Alice calls back.

"I know you're busy with Carlie and her friends, but I need to tell you something," she says.

I drop into the armchair beside my bed and swish my glass of wine. I should've brought the bottle upstairs. "They're fine. They're making cookies. What's up?"

She expels a long breath. "There's something I think maybe you need to know," she says. "I never thought I'd tell you this, but I honestly never thought I'd hear Edward's name again."

"That sounds ominous. What's going on?"

"You know how I felt about what Edward did to you, right?"

"You made your contempt for his behaviour quite clear, yes."

"Well, what you don't know is that a few years after you'd broken up, he came looking for you. Well, not a few years, more like six, I guess. He came to my place trying to find you one summer."

"What?"

I'm so shocked, I can only manage that one word. I'm not even sure I _do_ say the whole word, the final consonant dying on my lips.

"_Whaaaa_?" That's what I actually say.

"He'd been trying to track you down. He went back to your old house, but you'd already moved by then. When he realized you weren't living at that house anymore, he came to my place. I was his only other lead. If he'd come a week later, I wouldn't have been there either. That was the summer I went to Greece and then came back and got that apartment downtown."

"Greece? Wait, the summer after we graduated from university?"

"He said he'd been looking for you for a while, but he had so little to go on. He looked in the phone book, but he obviously didn't know your phone listing was in Phil's last name. He tried every Swan in the book, but no luck."

"Holy shit, Alice. Why didn't you tell me?"

"You and Mike were engaged. What was I supposed to do? Tell you a month and a half before your wedding that your hot high school boyfriend was looking to hook up? Call me crazy, but that didn't seem like such a good idea."

She's right. If I'd been in her shoes, I'd have done the same thing.

"I can't believe he looked for me. Did he tell you anything?" I ask. "Did he explain why he'd broken things off with me?"

"He wasn't prepared to talk to me about it, but he said that if he could explain it to you he was sure you'd understand. That's when I told him you were engaged."

"What did he say to that?"

"He asked who you were marrying, and I told him about Mike, that he was this up-and-coming computer genius. He said he guessed your mom was right, and that he wasn't good enough for you after all."

"Hold on, what? When would my mother have said that to him? She didn't even know he existed."

Alice pauses, and then says, "Actually, I think she did. I think my mom ratted you out."

"Are you serious?"

"She probably caught wind of something that month you guys were going out and I was covering for you. I'm pretty sure she used to read my diary. She never said anything to me, but I bet she called your mom."

It's all too much to take in. Edward came looking for me? Six years after he'd broken up with me, he'd tried to track me down. And my mother had known about him all along? She'd never breathed a word. She'd scared him away and never said a word about it.

And Alice wrote in her diary about my relationship with Edward?

"Bella? Are you okay? Are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm here. I'm fine. I mean, I don't know how I am. This is crazy." I take a rather long drink of my wine. I'm beyond sipping. In fact, I'm starting to wish I was drinking something stronger. "Why did you decide to tell me about this now, Alice? You had to know this would make me even more curious about what he's up to."

"I knew that if you'd got it in your head to track him down, you'd do it regardless of what I say about it. I guess I figured I wouldn't be much of a friend if I didn't help you go into the situation armed with as much information as possible."

I tell Alice I'm grateful to her for leveling with me, but after we've hung up, I start playing out an imaginary conversation Edward and I might have if we were to meet. I picture him telling me he went looking for me all those years ago, finally ending up on Alice's porch. Maybe Alice's decision to level with me wasn't an act of friendship. Maybe she was simply trying to beat him to the punch.

I mustn't be too hard on Alice. My relationship with Edward did enough damage to our friendship when we were sixteen. I can't afford to lose her now. She's my rock—aside from my mother, the only one who seems capable of loving and accepting me unequivocally, warts and all. I realize I should probably include my daughter in this circle of unconditional love, but Carlie is still stuck somewhere in that tunnel of adolescence, in a place where _mom_ is synonymous with _whatever_.

And speaking of moms, I have another phone call to make. Apparently, my mother has some explaining to do.

... ... ...

**Ever looked up an old flame? Can't blame our Bella for wanting to reconnect with hers. ;)**

**Thanks for reading,**

**R**


	12. Edders

**Chapter 12 - Edders  
**

**Saturday September 1, 2012**

* * *

Lying in bed on Saturday morning, I think back over my week. It's been five days since I "found" Edward. Alice had checked in with me early in the week, and every day afterwards, initially prodding for details about my conversation with my mother, a conversation which had merely confused me instead of helping me to understand what had happened with Edward.

_Oh, yes, I remember that wild, handsome boy_. That's what my mother had said during our second Sunday night phone call. She confirmed what Alice suspected—Mrs. Brandon had been the one who'd warned her that I'd gotten myself involved with a boy who smoked, played guitar in a rock band and went to Jarvis Collegiate, of all schools.

When I asked my mother how she'd known he was good-looking, she said, "I saw him with my own two eyes, the day he came over to bring you that white rose."

Having always assumed a florist had delivered the rose, I was shocked to discover that Edward had been the one who'd arrived on my doorstep the Saturday morning after our dinner and movie date. He'd known how strict my mother was. What on earth could have possessed him to do something so foolish?

"So what did Edward say to you?" I asked her.

"He introduced himself and wanted to know if you were home. I told him I knew who he was and I also knew what was best for you," my mother said. "I explained that you were far too young to be dating and that we certainly didn't want you smoking and hanging out in seedy bars."

Seedy bars? What the hell was she talking about?

I was angry, and I could have berated her for sabotaging my relationship with Edward, but what would that have achieved? All the same, I couldn't help making a pointed comment or two, telling her how much I'd liked him and how devastated I'd been when he'd broken up with me. Instead of apologizing, my mother laughed.

"Oh, Bella," she said. "Nothing I said to that young man seemed to make one speck of difference. Do you know what he said to me? He said, 'With all due respect ma'am, Bella's a smart girl. I think you should let her have some input into what's best for her. Can you please tell her I'm here?'"

"And what did you say to that, Mom?" I asked her.

"I told him you were doing homework and couldn't be disturbed. I said I'd give you the flower, but that he should prepare himself for you to come to your senses because, as he'd pointed out, you were a smart girl. Then I closed the door, and he left."

"You never said anything to me about any of this."

"I was so sad that you hadn't told me about him. I wanted you to bring it up. You took that flower out of the box and didn't say a single word."

"Can you blame me? I knew you'd never let me date him."

"I suppose if I'd thought it through properly, I would have realized that you didn't tell me because you knew I'd interfere, and that's exactly what I'd just done. I'll admit I was curious to see what he would do next. I gather he must have drifted away. I never heard you speak of him and within the month, you were dating Michael, and he was such a quiet, studious boy."

Yes. He was a quiet, studious boy. A well-behaved boy my parents approved of, Mike was a safe landing spot. These are not the ingredients of an ardent love story.

In the days since this talk with my mother, I've continued to mull over her warning to Edward, his response to it and Alice's speculation that Edward might have spoken bravely to my mother on my front porch and then gone home and thought it over, deciding that maybe my mom was right. Maybe he wasn't good enough for me.

I ponder this theory, imagining Edward finding himself unworthy. Things don't add up. I simply can't picture Edward, always so confident and comfortable in his skin, doubting himself.

I'm more curious than ever about what _really_ happened in the fall of 1984.

X-X-X

I've been telling Alice all week that I don't know what to do about Edward, but that's not quite true. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a plan has been quietly unfolding. Claiming I have no idea if I really want to see Edward again hardly explains the uncharacteristic activities I've spent the week engaging in, though, activities which included, but were not limited to:

-Tacking an extra two miles onto my two mile run every day.

(Surely this need to run further and harder is a response to the extra stress I've been under and has nothing to do with a sudden desire to lose five pounds ASAP).

-Eliminating carbs from my diet entirely.

(Again, this isn't in any way related to an irrational need to shed weight. I've been hearing a lot about the glycemic health risks of breads and pastas, that's all. It's about time I started taking things like that into consideration).

-Going to two extra yoga classes.

(Yoga, like running, is an excellent stress reducer. Squeezing in a couple more sessions of yoga isn't associated with any sort of wish to increase my flexibility, regardless of how beneficial flexibility can be when engaging in certain...physical activities).

-Having a manicure, pedicure, bikini area wax, haircut and colour and then shopping for some new bras and panties.

(This week of self-indulgence and excessive pampering hasn't been at all inspired by Edward's quite obviously toned physique and ruggedly handsome looks. I've merely been trying to boost my own self-esteem. As for the undergarments? I'm worth it, damn it).

-Buying a laptop.

(Carlie was right when she said I'd need a laptop if I were to take a night course. It's wholly irrelevant that the very first thing I did when I brought my laptop home was to figure out how to start my own LinkedIn account and Facebook page. I also had Jasper on the phone on Wednesday night, talking me through installing the printer driver. I printed Edward's very attractive Facebook profile picture, just to make sure the printer was working properly. This seemed logical).

Not sure what I want to do about Edward? Ha!

X-X-X

I'm still sprawled out in bed when I hear Carlie crashing around in her room. She's up early, getting ready for her weekend with her dad. I drag my ass out of bed, standing naked in front of my bathroom mirror as I have every morning this week.

"What if you guys hook up and you end up getting it on?" Alice had asked me on Wednesday. "There's no way I could handle someone other than Jasper seeing me naked now. My boobs look like dill pickles from nursing the kids, and my stomach? The stretch marks and Caesarean scars? Forget it. There's no way."

I assess myself critically—is there any other way a middle-aged woman _can_ assess herself? I've held up okay. My pregnancy didn't leave behind stretch marks. My mother didn't have any after I was born, either. Inherited skin elasticity is a wonderful thing.

I try to imagine how I'd look to Edward. My sixteen-year-old body is long gone, the tautness of my muscles and the sharp bones in my shoulders and hips a distant memory. My breasts are fuller, my curves softer. I can't make myself believe that these changes are bad. I was a bone rack as a teenager. What man wouldn't want a few extra curves to grab onto?

That's my story, and I decide to stick to it. Like fly paper.

Of course, all of this conjecture about whether or not Edward would still be attracted to me is based on the purely hypothetical chance that I'll take the leap and track him down, and the even more wildly ridiculous supposition that upon re-connecting, we'll end up in bed together.

Hypothetical. And _wildly_ ridiculous.

X-X-X

A little over three hours later, I'm shaking Carlie's favourite pillow into its pillowcase and sliding it into a garbage bag. She won't go anywhere without her pillow. Can't say I blame her. I'm a bit of a pillow snob myself. "What time is your father picking you up?" I ask her.

"He's not picking me up," she says. "He's sending a car service."

I drop onto the bed, watching her wrestle with the zipper of her overnight bag. "A car service? Well, that's awfully paternal. Is he working?"

"No, he's taking some vacation time, but he doesn't feel up to driving."

"Vacation time? Your father is taking vacation time?"

For as long as I've known him, I don't think I've ever heard Mike _say_ the word 'vacation.' We travelled extensively during our marriage, particularly before Carlie was born, but the trips were always connected to business ventures and never truly restful for him. I saw the highlights in some of the world's most beautiful cities all by myself while Mike attended business meetings and conferences. I'm on the cusp of making a snide comment about this new woman of his having more influence than I ever did. I bite my tongue and focus on the practicalities.

"If I'd known your dad wasn't coming to get you, I could have driven you out to Milton myself. That'll be a boring trip for you."

"It's okay, Mom. I don't care. I'll bring my e-reader and my iPod. No biggie."

"So what time is the car arriving?"

"About twenty minutes," she says, glancing at her bedside clock. It's almost noon.

"Are you ready for Tuesday? You have your clothes picked out and everything? I don't want you to be up all night when you get back planning for your first day of school."

"My clothes are ready, my school bag is packed. I'm good to go."

"Thank you for doing that. Well, tell your dad I don't want you home too late on Monday."

"He said he'd have me back no later than nine."

"Sounds fair."

As Carlie lugs her things downstairs, I calculate the hours between now and Monday night at nine. It's going to be a long, boring weekend.

Unless, of course, I do something rash…

Oh, who am I kidding? It's not a question of _if _I'll do something rash; it's merely a question of how long it'll take me to summon up the nerve.

X-X-X

Three hours. That's about how long it takes me.

X-X-X

I refuse to drive on the Don Valley Parkway. The memory of my mother veering from lane to lane with me in the backseat and Phil beside her trying to calm her down as she repeatedly over-corrected her steering will never fade, I'm sure. First we'd almost crashed into a car on our right and then we'd come awfully close to taking out the guardrail on our left. My short life flashed before my eyes that day. I'm convinced I'll relive the event if I ever venture onto that road, the traumatic memory inspiring a repeat performance with me at the wheel instead of my mother.

When I have to go downtown, I always leave myself plenty of time to get there using all sorts of roundabout routes which usually involve numerous red lights and residential speed limits. I don't care. I tolerate the traffic. Anything to avoid the DVP.

Edward's studio is all the way downtown. The route I choose makes the trip twice as long as it would have been if I'd taken the DVP, but the studio is open until six on Saturdays. I have plenty of time. The extra half hour in the car gives me a chance to think. This extra half hour also gives me a chance to chicken out, but I refuse to let myself change my mind. I've thought this through and through. I need to do this.

(And I need to do it now, while my hair looks awesome and my pedicure is perfect. My bikini-line is a non-issue. Regardless of what happens today, my jeans are staying buttoned up).

I feel the same mix of trepidation and excitement I'd felt on that day back in 1984, when I'd launched out on my own, visiting the Ex by myself with the sole purpose of running into Edward. I knew then that I'd regret not taking the chance and always wondering '_what if_?' Of course, then I'd been looking for fun and adventures. Now, I'm looking for answers.

Edward's music studio is one of several businesses in a brownstone building near the Esplanade. I pass it, making a mental note of its location and then start scouting for a place to leave the car, managing to find street parking fairly close to the studio. Before setting off on foot, I take a few minutes to double check my appearance in the visor mirror. I brush my hair and reapply my lipstick, dabbing some perfume subtly behind my ears. History does have a way of repeating itself.

X-X-X

_I am a confident, intelligent, beautiful woman._

That's what I am, and that's what I tell myself, mumbling it like a mantra at least two hundred times as I pace in front of the wine-making store next door to Edward's music studio. Maybe I'll switch gears and opt to make myself a vat of wine instead, and then it wouldn't be a wasted trip down here after all. Maybe they'd let me do some sampling. I need something to drink. My mouth is so dry all of sudden.

My heart won't settle down. It's beating a million miles a minute. It could easily serve as a click track for a high-powered rock ensemble.

I ask myself what I'm doing and steadfastly refuse to answer. I'm afraid the answer won't be pretty.

"Oh, God, just go in, you idiot," I say, out loud this time, at a volume much higher than warranted. My outburst elicits a strange look from a woman who's just emerged from the studio. She pulls her young son close to her side to keep him safe from the crazy lady who's yelling at herself on the sidewalk.

Her expression is just the push I need. I'm not a lunatic. I'm merely hoping to have a conversation with someone. Someone I haven't seen in almost three decades. No big deal. I take a huge breath, shake out my hands as If I'm about to settle myself into the starting blocks of a 100-metre dash and launch myself towards the studio's front door. A swift pull on the handle and I'm in.

At first, I'm disoriented, the contrast between the brightness outside and the relatively dim interior forcing me to blink a few times as I wait for my eyes to adjust. I scan the reception area quickly. Two of the walls are chocolate brown, the others red ochre. Brown leather couches skirt the walls and mahogany end tables sit beside the sofas. A self-serve coffee bar is tucked into a niche on the far wall. The atmosphere is warm.

There's a kid behind the reception desk. He can't be any more than sixteen, his hair sweeping low across his forehead in a way that would make Carlie sigh and say, "He's so freaking cute." The boy is staring at me expectantly. I can't quite pull my thoughts together. I'm too busy thanking God that Edward's not the one sitting behind the glass desk. His (second) first impression of me wouldn't be favourable—a blinking, confused-looking middle-aged woman who was just outside pacing and muttering to herself like a maniac.

"Can I help you?" the boy says. He stands up as if to emphasize his willingness to be of assistance.

"Yes, I'm here to inquire about…lessons," I say. "For my daughter."

Lessons? For Carlie? Carlie, who's never had an iota of interest in learning an instrument? Where did that lie come from?

"What kind of lessons?" he asks me, standing and moving to a brochure holder behind him.

"Piano. Piano and guitar."

Piano _and_ guitar? Now my non-musically inclined daughter has a sudden interest in two wholly different instruments?

"Okay, well, this is a breakdown of the costs," the kid says, leaning over the desk and holding out two different pamphlets.

I have to move across the room to take them from him. I make a pretense of flipping through each one in turn, and then I look around with a casualness that belies my thundering heart. "I was actually hoping to chat with the owner. Is he around? Edward, isn't it?"

"Yeah, Edward. He's my uncle, but he's not here. He left about an hour ago. He's gone out for a run with his running club. I'm holding down the fort."

The kid—Edward's nephew, apparently—puffs his chest up, obviously proud of the responsibility entrusted to him, and then he bobs his head at the bulletin board behind him. As I peer across the desk, I understand why. This picture serves as an explanation for Edward's whereabouts. There's a newspaper clipping of him at the finish line of a race, standing between a dark-haired guy and a stunning blonde, his arm draped casually around the blonde's shoulder as all three of them hold their medals up to the camera..

"I see," I say.

I do see. Do I ever. I see Edward's incredibly toned physique. He's not just in good shape, he's probably in better shape than he had been as a teenager. I also see his arm around that blonde's shoulder. I volley my feelings around, trying to decide if I'm relieved or disappointed that he isn't here.

I lean across the desk, squinting at the news clipping. I'm trying to see if there's a ring on _her_ finger. I wish I'd worn my glasses.

"He competes in triathlons," the kids says, watching as I strain my neck forwards.

Triathlons? Suddenly my daily couple of mile jog around the neighbourhood seems ridiculous, and my soft curves potentially not as appealing as I'd originally thought. Edward has turned into a fitness freak.

"Good for him. That's good." I scan the rest of the bulletin board, and find myself moving around the desk to get a closer look. "What's that all about?" I ask, pointing at another newspaper article, the headline jumping out at me: **_CNE Sky Ride: Comparing Old and New_**.

"Oh that?" The kid rolls his eyes. "My uncle's kind of obsessed with the Ex. There's this new thing called The Sky Ride. It's replacing a ride he used to like when he was a kid. It was pulled down in the 90s. It was called the Alpine Way."

"The Alpine Way," I say, echoing his words but not his tone. He's speaking matter-of-factly. I sound wistful.

"You know it?" he asks me, gesturing at the picture.

"I went on it once," I say. "A long time ago."

"My uncle's taking me tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night? How come you're going at night? The studio isn't open on Sundays is it?"

Please tell me Edward's not married to the studio—a business owner who feels compelled to offer services on Sundays.

Please tell me Edward's not married, period.

"No, it's closed on Sundays. We're going after dinner 'cause my uncle has this thing about wanting to go on the Sky Ride at eight o'clock. Some sort of tradition or something. Edders is a bit of a character."

"Edders?"

"Yeah, that's what I call him. _Edward_ is kind of a dorky name, don't you think? So I call him Edders. Like Eddie Vedder's name all rolled into one."

"Eddie Vedder, huh? You like Pearl Jam?" I ask him.

"They're the best," he says. "I saw them at the Molson Amphitheatre in 2009. Edders took me."

"That was a great concert," I say, but what I'm actually thinking is _really_? _Seriously?_ Edward had been at the same concert Mike had taken me to—same venue, same night, three years ago—for our anniversary. How many other places have we been at the same time over the last however-many-years without knowing it?

"Yeah. Awesome," the kid says, shifting uneasily as he retreats to his spot behind the desk, eyeing the pamphlets and the computer screen. He seems to have suddenly realized that he probably shouldn't be spilling so much personal information about himself and his uncle to a random walk-in.

Now would not be a good time to seek clarification of Edward's marital status.

"Well, thanks for all the info," I say, glancing at the newspaper article one last time before turning and dropping the pamphlets on the glass desk. "I'll think about the lessons."

I'm lying, of course. My visit has given me a lot to think about, but music lessons aren't high on the list.

... ... ...


	13. Nostalgia

**Chapter 13 – Nostalgia**

* * *

** - EDWARD -  
**

* * *

It's Labour Day weekend—my last chance to visit the Exhibition before it's packed up for another year. After telling my nephew all about the summer I spent working on the Polar Express, Jordie's been nagging me to bring him with me for my annual visit to the amusement park. That's how I find myself walking the CNE midway on a Sunday evening, buying him caramel corn and soda and watching as he plays game after game in arcade alley.

His determination to win reminds me of myself back in high school, trying my damnedest to win a prize for Bella Swan, the sweetest girl I've ever known. God, that was a long time ago. Fucked if I can remember what game I'd won, or what the prize had been, but I know I'd finally snagged her something.

"I wanna hit some of the rides," Jordie announces, after exhausting his stash of one and two dollar coins.

"Probably a good idea to move along. We don't have a lot of time before we have to hook up with your mom and dad."

My brother Emmett and his wife have gone off to visit the International Pavilion. We're supposed to catch up with them at around eight-fifteen to regroup. My taste for roller coasters has declined, my desire to go on any wildly spinning rides non-existent. The only thing I truly want to do now is visit the Sky Ride. I'm eager to see the attraction they've built to replace the Alpine Way which was pulled down in 1994, much to my horror.

I indulge my nephew anyway, going on a few rides with him. Frankly, these rides terrify me, not because of their height or the jerkiness of the movements, but because I remember them being here in 1984. What's the lifespan of a goddamn amusement park ride? I envision bolts flying as metal comes unhinged, sending bodies hurtling through the air.

It's official. I'm fucking old.

Forty-five minutes later, I'm still alive—queasy, but alive. It's quarter to eight, and I start nudging Jordie towards the Sky Ride. Jordie looks at me curiously as I cajole him along, _I don't get what the big deal is_ written plainly on his face. I have no intention of telling him that I kissed an incredibly pretty girl at eight o'clock one night while riding the Alpine Way, and every year I come back here to close my eyes and relive that memory. I don't need my nephew thinking his uncle's a pussy. He'd tell his father, and Emmett would mock me until the end of time.

No. _Tradition._ That's what I've been telling him, claiming that I always used to go on the Alpine Way at eight o'clock when I was a kid, in time to watch the sun dissolve into the horizon. I remind him of that now, suddenly realizing that wanting to watch a sunset makes me almost as much of a pussy as wanting to relive the memory of a first kiss with a sweet girl. What the hell. It's too late to retract my tale now. I steer him through the midway while he laughs and tells me I'm a weirdo.

As we stand in the short line-up, waiting for our turn on the Sky Ride, Jordie crosses his arms and casts his eyes upwards. "So it was cooler than this, huh? The ride that was here before?"

"Yeah, maybe, maybe not. Somehow everything's cooler in your memories. It was way higher than this. Like three times as high—over a hundred feet. Brutal if you were afraid of heights." My stomach twinges as a memory of Bella fanning her face in terror flashes before my eyes. "And you rode in these capsules with doors. Not like these rinky-dink things," I say, motioning to the carriages zipping off along the cable in front of us. "Excellent for making out with a girl. Privacy. You know." I give him a wink and a nudge, a series of vivid images dancing in my mind's eye—my hand on Bella's thigh, her fingers in my hair, her tongue gently sliding against mine.

"Sounds cool. Wish they hadn't pulled it down."

"Me too, Jordie. Me too."

We're shuttled into position in front of an oncoming chairlift, our asses lined up with the approaching seat which whisks us away. I turn and peer over my shoulder. On the ground, the people in line are watching as each new pair of riders is scooped up and makes the upward journey. Many of them are my age, and I wonder which of them, like me, are standing in judgment, mocking this feeble attempt to revive the Alpine Way.

One of the spectators, a woman, seems really eager to check out the mechanics of the ride. She's pushing her way through the crowds off to the side of the line, and then she shields her eyes as she scans the line and watches riders settle in. She's attractive—a brunette—her sunglasses perched on top of her head. I blink and shake my head, rubbing my eyes to clear my vision.

My nephew squints at me. "What is it, Edders?"

"Nothing," I say, frowning and turning to look at the midway in front of us. "Thought I recognized someone, that's all."

_Someone._ A phantom—the ghost of a girl—a relic from a happier time.

My mind playing tricks.

"Quit distracting me, kid," I say, yanking on the peak of his ball cap. "It isn't every day the Alpine Way reopens. I'm revisiting my glory days here. I need to take this all in."

"It's not called the Alpine Way. It's called the Sky Ride."

"You're right. It's not the Alpine Way. Not even a little bit."

How could it be? Without that sweet girl—without Bella sitting beside me—it doesn't feel the same at all. The memories are intense…visceral. I haven't smoked in years, but I can almost taste the nicotine on the back of my tongue and the tingle of the cinnamon gum chaser. Bella's lips, too. If I close my eyes, I can feel their trembling softness against mine—the delicious tentativeness of that first kiss. That's just nostalgia, though. And let's face it, nostalgia may conjure up the past, but at the end of the day, it only serves to remind us how much things have changed. What we've lost.

"Hey, there it is, Edders!" my nephew says, his hand outstretched, pointing at the Polar Express. "That's where you worked, right?"

"That's her," I confirm, perching my elbows on the safety bar and peering down at the ride.

Speaking of relics.

1984. Christ, that was a lifetime ago. I was just a kid—all balls and no brains, quick to cast my line and eager to haul it in at the first hint of a nibble. Bella had nibbled, and I'd reeled her in, desperate to have her, intoxicated by her sweetness and utterly fucking destroyed by her doe-eyed innocence.

She'd been almost as full as bluff and bluster as I had. The smoking, the music, the makeup and tight jeans, the dirty talk—all attempts at painting a worldliness she hadn't possessed. She was a fraud, but I didn't care. I didn't care because she was the prettiest fraud I'd ever met.

I knew all the half-truths and pretenses were designed to impress me. She didn't need to lie to impress me, but I'd let her. I suppose I would have said something eventually—called her bluff—told her to drop the act.

I never got the chance.

Fate stepped in, throwing me into a tailspin. I'd lured her, caught her and reeled her in, but then I'd been forced to throw her back.

Bella Swan...the one that got away...

X-X-X

We reach the end of the ride, and Jordie insists on getting back in line so we can make the return trip instead of walking. I'm easily swayed. It's hot. My body is aching from yesterday's run. I could do without the walk back to the Better Living Centre where we're supposed to meet Emmett and Rosalie.

Once we're settled into a seat, I pull on the peak of Jordie's cap again. "So things went okay at the studio yesterday after I left?"

"Yeah. A couple of people dropped in. They wanted prices on lessons and stuff."

"I told you things would pick up once school got closer. Any questions you couldn't answer?"

"Nah, it was all good. I gave them brochures and told them to check out the website. This one lady was weird. She asked a bunch of questions, but then she didn't take the brochures I gave her."

"Did you give her a tour? Sometimes the tour sways them, you know. The set-up _is _pretty cool. Once we get the renos finished it'll be even more impressive."

"She didn't want a tour. I don't think she really cared about the studio either. She was looking at the cork board behind your desk, asking questions about you and stuff."

"Oh yeah? Maybe she saw me at an open mic night or something and she's stalking me. Was she hot?"

Jordie wrinkles his nose and grimaces. "Ew. She was old. Like mom's age. That's gross."

"I'm telling your mom you said she was old."

"You tell her that, I'll tell her you said her ass is getting as big as a barn door."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me." He looks at me slyly. Little shit. "Hey, did you talk to my mom and dad about me doing some after school shifts in September?" he asks me.

"Yep. I went straight to the boss."

"What did she say?"

"She said you get September as a trial run starting the second week of school. If you prove you can keep your grades up, she'll think about letting you stay on until your first report card comes out. Any phone calls from teachers and you're screwed, so no messing up. Your mom's word is law."

"I won't fuck up, Edders, I promise."

"Hey, watch your mouth." I clip him playfully on the side of his head.

"Don't do that. Dad does that. I hate it."

"I know. He used to do it to me all the time when we were kids."

"Did it keep you in line?"

"Nope. Just made me pissy." I chuckle at the memory. Emmett was no more able to control me back then than he's able to control his wife and kid now. "Anyway, you keep your nose clean at school, and maybe you can do enough shifts to be able to afford that guitar you have your eye on by Christmas."

"You think?"

"Depends on whether you start spending your money on dumb shit. Or whether you get yourself a girlfriend to spend it on."

"Is that true? Do chicks really cost a lot of money?"

"First of all, women don't appreciate being called _chicks_, and secondly, only peelers and prostitutes _cost_ money. What I'm saying is, when you're with a girl you care about—a girl who's worth spending time with—you'll want to spoil her. You'll want to buy her things, take her out, treat her well. Moral of the story, stay away from women until _after_ you buy your guitar. Actually," I say, "after you buy a guitar, you'll be _fighting_ off the girls, trust me."

"Really?"

His eager expression makes me smile. Poor kid. His hormones must be off the frigging charts. Imagining Jordie doing some of the shit I was doing when I was fifteen makes the hair on my neck stand on end, and he's not even my kid.

"Hey, Edders," Jordie's tapping my arm. "That's creepy. Look down there. See that lady? That's her! That's the lady who came to the studio and was asking all those questions about you. Right in front of the Polar Express. That's her. Holy shit, how weird is that?"

I follow the line of his extended arm.

I watch the woman he's pointing at spin around. It's the same brunette I saw earlier staring up at the Sky Ride. She's taking in everything around her. When she gathers up her hair, pony-tailing it in her hands, my stomach drops, landing somewhere around my bladder. It's a Bella gesture, through and through.

What the fuck?

She turns again, staring up at the ride where we first met. It has to be her. It's too much of a coincidence. But how is this possible?

A hallucination. I'm hallucinating. Or I'm dreaming. That must be it. I've been thinking so much about her in the last couple of weeks—like I do every August—that I'm having this incredibly realistic dream of Bella reappearing before me, right in front of the Polar Express, like she did all those years ago.

"Edders? Did you hear me?" Jordie nudges me hard, right in the bicep. His sharp elbow hurts more than a pinch and works twice as well. I'm not dreaming. This is really happening. How the hell is this happening? "That lady—"

"Yeah, yeah, kid, I heard you," I say, cutting him off. "I think I know her…"

"What? You do? Who is she?"

We're both leaning over the side of the seat now, craning our necks. Jordie's obviously curious about this so-called weird woman who seems to be stalking me, while I'm trying to figure out how to bridge the forty feet between me and the ground right this very minute without killing myself, or how to survive the remaining minutes of the ride, knowing Bella Swan is down there and I can't get at her.

Either way, my death seems unavoidable.

... ... ...


	14. Collateral Damage

**Chapter 14 - Collateral Damage**

* * *

**Bella**

* * *

I'd fully intended to get to the CNE well before eight o'clock so I'd have plenty of time to search for Edward in the line-up for the Sky Ride. But with the car service arriving at the house half an hour late, by the time I hop out of the cab at the CNE's Princes' Gates, it's twenty to eight. I have to move a lot more quickly than I'd like to. It's humid. I'm going to end up a sweaty mess.

As I rush towards the Sky Ride, I think about Alice's warnings. "You'll be disappointed, Bella. You'll be disappointed when you can't find him. Even if you do find him, I think you'll still be disappointed. You can't have seventeen-year-old Edward back."

Deep down, I fear she might be right, but something is spurring me on. Edward's nephew's story about them coming to the CNE tonight has been teasing at the edges of my mind since I left the studio, tugging at my heart non-stop. I can't let it go. I tried to explain my feelings to Alice. She heard me out then said she'd be waiting to hear from me tonight, ready with a more sympathetic ear than she'd had back in high school.

I can't begin to articulate how desperately I want her to be wrong.

When I reach the Sky Ride, I come to the swift and rather unpleasant realization that there are two separate ways to access the gondola. I can't be at both ends of the ride at the same time, waiting for Edward to show up. Why hadn't this occurred to me?

Disheartened, I slump against a ticket booth near the International Pavilion. My chances of spotting Edward may be slim, but I tell myself I've come too far to give up without trying. My only option is to check both admission gates.

I spend a few minutes watching the line-up at the east gate, but eventually, seeing no sign of Edward anywhere, I abandon my post and make my way to the other entrance. The line-up on this end is longer, and the crowd of curious spectators blocks my view of the people waiting to embark. From my vantage point, I can watch the metal chairlifts rising on the wire, but the sun sitting just on the roof of the nearby Better Living Centre is getting in my eyes. All I can see are silhouettes ascending into the sky. I try to politely push my way through the crowd to reach the railing, and now that I'm able to see the line-up, I push my sunglasses up onto my head and take a good long look at the people waiting for their turn.

Of the twenty or so people waiting in line, not one is Edward. It's just shy of eight o'clock, and Edward isn't here.

I shouldn't be surprised. I've cooked up this wildly impractical scheme based on a story told to me by a teenager. It was ridiculous of me to think I'd arrive at eight and Edward would be standing there conveniently waiting for me to arrive.

What was I expecting? An encounter of Gatsbyesque proportions? A romantic reunion like something from _An Affair to Remember?_

I sigh and drop my head back, closing my eyes as I berate myself for being such a fool. Sure, I could quite easily go back to Edward's studio during business hours and track him down there, but I won't. I need to stop behaving like an adolescent. There's only one thing to do. I'll go home and call Alice—tell her she was right. Then I'll have several large glasses of wine and watch a sappy movie.

To quote my daughter, I am fail.

X-X-X

Unable to leave the park without at least revisiting the spot where I'd first seen Edward, I take a detour past the Polar Express where a mishmash of memories brings me to a swift halt. I spin around slowly, remembering the spot where I'd smoked for the first time and Edward had used my cigarette to light his own. I stare at the nearby bench—just like the one Edward and I had sat on together, drinking Coke and getting vaguely acquainted. Then there's the railing Edward had spent the majority of his time leaning against while on the job, exuding quiet, easy sexiness and a cool, detached bravado.

No wonder I'd fallen for him.

I could almost convince myself no time has passed. The Alpine Way may have been dismantled and swapped out for a tamer, less elaborate replacement, but this ride hasn't changed at all. The Carnie calls out the same greetings while the music blares and the riders scream just as loudly as they had in 1984. The songs are different now, though, and the kids who work the ride are wearing black shorts and white T-shirts with the Conklin amusement park logo on the front.

And I'm not fifteen-going-on-sixteen. Not even close.

My whole body aches with longing. It's a heavy, unpleasant sensation. It's a feeling of loss and regret, and underneath it all, a reminder that the past is just that. Past. It can't be reclaimed.

Oddly enough, a sense of closure which I lacked all those years ago settles over me. Maybe this was all I needed—to say goodbye. I look around for a few more minutes, taking a deep breath as I prepare myself to walk away, and then I hear a voice cutting through the midway's noise—someone calling my name.

"Bella? Bella Swan? Jesus, Bella, is it really you?"

I turn to look at the man standing about twenty feet away from me, slowly pulling off his sunglasses and then dropping his hands to his sides as he stares at me, his chest rising and falling rapidly. I take in his jeans and his Foo Fighters T-shirt, his dancing green eyes and disheveled hair, and the past and present collide so violently, I swear I can hear time bending. At first, I think I might faint. All of a sudden everything is too loud, too blurry, the air too humid and thick.

_Edward?_

My heart, an organ which has been beating reliably behind my ribcage for years, shudders as if it can't possibly remain trapped in my body. I imagine it breaking free, leaping from my chest and landing on the ground in the space between us.

When Edward steps forward, I want to say, "Stop! My heart's right there! You'll squash it! You'll crush it. _Again_." But I can't. I can't speak. I can't move. I can't do anything. Around me, everything is getting far away and too close at the same time. I'm going to pass out.

Is it possible to be so cogently aware of one's impending loss of consciousness?

"Yes, Edward. It's me," I try to say, though virtually no sound comes out of my mouth as I sway. "I tried to find you. I didn't…you weren't…" I shake my head, at a loss for words now that he's here, actually standing right in front of me. Edward. _My Edward_.

"Holy shit!" He rushes towards me and grabs me by the shoulders, looking me up and down, and then again. "I can't believe it's you. I thought I was imagining things. It's really you! What are you doing here?"

How do I explain what I'm doing here? I lick my lips, but my tongue has gone dry. It's as if I have a mouthful of cotton balls.

"Looking for you. I'm looking for you. I guess I found you."

"I guess you did." He hooks his sunglasses over the neck of his T-shirt and drops his hands to his hips. "God, is this really happening?"

I blink rapidly, trying to focus on his face and what he's saying, his expression and his words echoing my own confusion and incoherence perfectly. "I think I need to sit down."

He takes my elbow and leads me to the nearby bench, watching me take a few deep breaths. "Are you all right?"

"I'm okay. I just—I think this is the craziest thing I've ever done."

Okay, so maybe it's not the craziest thing I've ever done. It's safe to say that I did a lot of crazy things in the late summer of 1984. What is it about Edward that brings out the irrational in me?

"My nephew," he says, gesturing vaguely into the crowd. "Jordie—he spotted you. We were on the Sky Ride and he saw you. He told me he talked to you at the studio yesterday. I can't believe you're here. I mean I truly can't believe it."

With his disbelief adequately communicated, he clams up, shaking his head and staring at me. My maternal instinct kicks in as I realize his nephew must be wandering around somewhere by himself.

"Jordie. Where is he? Is he okay?"

"He's with his parents—my brother and sister-in-law. He's fine. So you went to the studio? I'm so glad you found it—found _me_. It's trippy, but…amazing."

"Kind of surreal, huh?" I say, my head finally clearing.

"No kidding. Jesus, how long has it been?"

"I'd rather not start counting years. I feel old enough as it is."

"True. I mean, true it was a long time ago. Not the old part. You look…well, you look fantastic."

His eyes dart across my face and then downwards. He's checking me out. When was the last time I was _checked out? _It's been years. I'm a _ma'am_ now—a middle-aged divorcée—the days of being gazed at admiringly a long-distant memory.

"You look great, too," I tell him, trying not to rake my eyes up and down his body _too_ salaciously. "I saw the picture of you—the triathalon picture on the cork board behind your desk. I guess you don't smoke anymore?"

He laughs at this. It's an easy comfortable laugh. I remember it well.

"No. Gave that up a _long_ time ago." He looks down at my left hand. "Not married?" he says.

"No." I hold my hand out, wiggling my fingers. "Divorced. Almost a year."

He expels a long, quiet breath then closes his eyes and smiles at the sky before turning back to me. "Mind if I say something crass and totally insensitive?"

"Be my guest."

"Thank fuck."

He grins as he watches me laugh.

"It's not nice to be so happy about someone's miserable love life," I point out.

"I don't agree. I mean, I'd never wish ill on you, but you having a miserable love life has a serious upside. It means you aren't spoken for. I'm pretty happy to hear that."

My heart starts to gallop, sucking all the oxygen from my blood. At least that's what it feels like. I was never a great Biology student. I'll be damned if I can remember the way the circulatory system works.

"And you? Are you single?" I manage to say.

"Yes, I'm single. I have a long history of it, actually. Singleness, I mean."

He's still smiling and I must be grinning ear to ear now, too—his singleness, my singleness, the fact that he's so happy to hear about my singleness, the fact that I'm ecstatic about his—none of this means anything, at least not yet, but it's rather critical to those hypothetical and wildly ridiculous scenarios I've been hatching all week.

"Shit, I knew I missed your smile, but I don't think I realized how much," he says. "You know what? You haven't changed at all."

"Oh yes, I have."

"Not in the important ways. Your eyes. Your smile. Your laugh."

Now would be a bad time to tell him his _important ways_ are also looking fine—his thighs, his biceps and forearms, his hair—all of which are apparently still capable of making my tummy flutter, even though he hasn't laid a finger on me. I haven't copped a good look at his rear-end yet, but something tells me it's just as fit as the rest of him.

"Did you come here alone?" he says.

"Completely."

"So let me see if I understand this. You came here alone tonight, just to find me?"

"I came here with no other purpose."_  
_

He examines my eyes. He doesn't smirk, he doesn't raise an eyebrow, he simply looks straight into my eyes, a gaze that seems to probe my soul.

"That's excellent news," he says at last. "Best news I've had in months—possibly years."

"Really?"

"Really. Like, _really._"

It's kind of astonishing how clearly these three rather inarticulate words communicate his pleasure at seeing me. Apparently, we're on the same page. I'm a hair's breadth away from getting swept away by the moment, but I remind myself that I barely know this man. To be perfectly honest, I barely knew the boy this man was before he aged so beautifully into the fine specimen sitting before me. For my heart's sake, I have to be careful.

He's looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to respond, but I feel as if I'm on stage and I've forgotten my lines, everyone in the audience squirming uncomfortably as they wait for the appropriate words to fall from my lips. Do you make small talk with someone you were once intimate with but haven't seen for over a quarter of a century, or do you leap right in where you left off?

_So, about that sex we were going to have…one day…  
_

I shudder to think what Alice would say if she could see me right now.

"God, I don't know where to start," Edward says, once it becomes clear that I've been rendered mute. "There's so much I want to ask you. I mean, the obvious leaps to mind."

"The obvious?"

"Well, you've come looking for me. I guess I'm interested to know why."

I stare at my hands before looking back at him. "My daughter came to the Ex last week with a girlfriend. I got to thinking…"

"Your daughter? How old is she?"

"Sixteen. Her name's Carlie. She's a great kid."

"I'm sure she is. Any other children?"

"No, just the one."

"So Carlie came here with a friend? Scouting for boys perhaps?"

Now he smiles a little smugly, and I can't help smiling along with him. "I suppose that's what she was doing. I don't know, thinking about her coming here brought back a lot of memories. I found myself wondering what you were up to."

"So you looked me up?"

"Yes. LinkedIn." I shrug, feeling self-conscious.

"You don't have to be embarrassed. I've tried to find you several times over the years. I've always struck out. I come here every fall, you know—by myself—just remembering."

"Really?"

"You look surprised."

"I guess I never took you for the sentimental type."

"Sentimental? Yeah, maybe that's what you'd call it. Some masochistic part of my psyche makes me come back here every August to listen to the echoes. I have to say, seeing you in person is a hell of a lot better than revisiting some hazy memories."

"It's good to see you, too."

The silence stretches for a moment. We've been sitting all this while, both of us quite still, but now he claps his hands on his thighs and looks around.

"So, are you feeling better?" he asks me. "Do you feel up to walking for a bit?"

"Sure."

I welcome this opportunity to move. With the opening exchange behind us, I'm developing a bad case of _what the hell do we do now? _Perhaps Edward is feeling just as awkward. Movement will be good.

We wander away from the noise of the Polar Express. I purposely lag behind him for a second so that I can take a quick peek at his ass. Not at all disappointing. As we walk, I remember the first time we explored the midway together, linking hands, even though we barely knew each other.

But that was then. This is now.

We both stare up at the Sky Ride as we walk beneath it. "Are you still afraid of heights?" he asks me.

"Are you still afraid of responsibility and commitment?"

He smirks at the ground and kicks a piece of gravel with the toe of his shoe. "Touché."

"I'm not joking. I'd genuinely like to know. Actually, that's not true. I think I _need_ to know. As much as I wanted to see you again, and as happy as I am to hear that you're single, I need to know what happened between us."

He stops and turns, looking at my face intently. I study his face as well, trying to find the cocky teenaged boy who was so full of himself. So full of _promises_. The echoes are there, but they're dim—as insubstantial as my memories.

"Bella, I had a crash course in responsibility and commitment the week before we broke up. I've been honing both skills ever since, believe me."

"_That _begs the question."

"It does, doesn't it?" We lock eyes. A stand-off. Neither one of us blinks, which gives me plenty of time to examine the lovely hazel flecks in the green of his irises. I force myself to blink. "How long do you have?" he asks me.

I glance at my watch. I need enough time to find out what I want to know, but not so long that things could get carried away. I need an out. An opportunity to step back and take stock. "I have to be home by ten," I lie, thinking Alice would be so proud of me.

"And you're living where?"

"Markham. I took a taxi down."

"A taxi? All the way from Markham to here?"

"A car service actually. My ex was a firm believer in staying off the roads when you're stressed out or preoccupied. We've always used a car service. Habit, I guess."

"Okay. Well, I could give you a lift home. We can talk on the way."

He'll take me home, where we'll arrive to find an empty house waiting for us? A delicious idea, but not a good plan.

"I'm not sure if I'm comfortable with that."

His mouth twitches. I remember that mouth twitch.

"I guess that's understandable. How about Plan B—there's a beer tent over by the Better Living Centre. Maybe we could get caught up there. I'll buy you a drink and then I'll walk you to wherever you need to go to grab your taxi."

"A beer would be good. Just one, and then I'll have to go."

"I get the distinct impression you don't trust me," he says as we continue walking.

I can't help laughing. "I don't know who you are any more, and what I remember of you doesn't fill me with confidence."

"I suppose I deserve that."

"Maybe you do and maybe don't, but I'm older and wiser and I've been hurt. You can't blame me for being cautious."

"Of course not." He rubs his eyebrow with his index finger. "Look, I know it's over twenty-five years too late, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I realize that sounds stupid, but I truly am sorry."

I smile at him sadly. "You've forgotten."

"Forgotten what?"

"When you broke up with me. That was the one thing you _did_ say. You wouldn't tell me why you were dumping me, but you did tell me you were sorry."

"_Dumping you_. That sounds so callous."

"You broke my heart, Edward."

"Don't say that."

"Why not? It's true."

He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Thank God I didn't know that then. I don't think I could have coped."

"Understandable. Guilt isn't a pleasant thing to deal with."

"Guilt?" He gets a hazy look on his face, like he's remembering something, and then he shakes his head. "Bella, I walked away from you at that wedding trying to convince myself I was doing the right thing. Telling myself that I was the only one who was suffering made it a little easier. Having to leave you knowing your heart was breaking? _Guilt _is putting it mildly. That would've killed me. "

"Having to leave me? Why did you _have_ to? Things were going so well. I thought they were, anyway. Were we really so out of sync?"

"We weren't out of sync. Things were perfect. _You _were perfect. If I'd had my way, we never would have split up." He pauses, stares at the horizon. "As it turned out, I didn't have my way."

_He didn't have his way_. Is it possible that my mother really frightened him off? We arrive at the beer tent, pull up two chairs at a wobbly white table and order a couple of drafts. As soon as the waitress disappears, I pick up the conversation where we'd left off.

"You said we split up because you couldn't have your way. Did my mother really scare you that much?"

He laughs. "Your mother! Shit, that's right. You knew she'd told me to leave you alone?"

"Not then I didn't. Alice recently told me her parents snitched on me. I called my mom on Sunday night to ask her about it. She said she'd never forget the look on your face when she told you I wasn't allowed to date."

He squints up at the sky. "I'll never forget the way I felt. She might as well have punched me in the stomach. I was surprised when you told me she'd given you the flower. I figured she'd have thrown it in the garbage."

"Nope. Oddly enough, she got me a bud vase."

"That's strange."

"Apparently she was waiting for me to fess up. My mother was so afraid of me growing up. I'm sure seeing you standing on my porch must have terrified her. Why'd you do it? Come over, I mean."

"I don't know. I was tired of sneaking around behind your parents' backs. I knew I'd have trouble convincing you to come clean with them, and I guess I was arrogant enough to think I'd make a great impression. I mean, I was all dressed up for an interview, right? I introduced myself to her at the door. I didn't say I was your boyfriend, just that I was a friend of yours, but as soon as I said my name, she told me she knew who I was and that you weren't allowed to date. I don't think that's what she meant. I think she meant you weren't allowed to date _me_."

"Wow. All these years I thought I'd done something wrong, and it was my _mother_ who made you break up with me? I can't believe it."

Again Edward shakes his head. "You didn't do anything wrong. And your mother's warnings wouldn't have kept me away from you, Bella. I would have done whatever I had to as long as I could keep seeing you. As it turned out, I discovered something later that day which changed everything."

"Something happened to change your mind about our relationship?"

"No, Bella. Nothing could have changed my mind about us or my feelings for you, but what I found out turned my whole life upside down. My feelings for you were collateral damage."

His index finger softly skids under my hand, his thumb sliding over my knuckles, across my unadorned ring finger. I feel the warmth of his simple caress in every nerve-ending in my body, the tenderness of these fingertips that touched me in the most intimate ways so many years ago.

I have to force myself not to think about those intimate touches. I can't remain objective while entertaining those memories.

The waitress arrives with our plastic cups of beer and Edward's hand slips away from mine to retrieve his wallet. As I reach for my purse, he stops me with a gesture that says, "Don't even think about it." Once the waitress has moved on, he pushes his open wallet across the table to me, showing me a picture of a little boy.

"This is what happened," he tells me.

I ask the inevitable question, though I think I know the answer before Edward provides it.

"My son," he says. "That's Riley. My son."

I swallow hard and look at the faded picture more carefully. "How old is he?" I say.

"Six." He purses his lips as he stares down at the picture. "At least, he was six there. That picture was taken in 1991. He was six in 1991, Bella."

In addition to struggling with Biology, I'd floundered in Math class, but this calculation is a no-brainer.

Finally, everything adds up.

... ... ...


	15. Meant to Be

**Chapter 15 - Meant to Be**

* * *

"When was he born?" I ask, wanting to know, but dreading the answer.

"February of 1985," Edward says, watching my face carefully.

February. I try to count the months backwards, which isn't as easy as it sounds when you're in shock, not to mention grappling with all of the other emotions our encounter has elicited. Edward's eyes flicker down to my fingers which are tapping the table as I count.

"May," he tells me, halting my calculations. "She got pregnant in May of 1984, long before we met, Bella."

His face is red now—embarrassment? Shame? I can't say. I'm sure my cheeks have paled, the shock of finally learning the truth leeching the colour from my face.

"You didn't get bored with me." This is possibly the dumbest thing I've ever said. Hearing the words come out of my mouth is mortifying, but it's as if my sixteen-year-old self is processing the reason for our break-up instead of the grown woman sitting before him. The sixteen-year-old's shattered self-esteem has been pieced back together by his admission, and knowing she wasn't deemed pathetic after all is the only thing that concerns her.

He reaches out, enveloping my suddenly clammy fingers in his warm hand. "Bored? God no. Of course not."

I look down at our hands, watching his thumb brushing across my knuckles. I can't think straight. I gently pry my hand free and rest it on my lap.

"Why didn't you tell me, Edward?"

"I couldn't bring myself to. I thought you'd hate me. I suppose I knew you'd hate me anyway, but I was afraid that if you knew I'd gotten someone pregnant, you'd think all I'd wanted from you was sex. I didn't want you to remember me that way. I didn't want you to hate me for that reason. It didn't occur to me you'd think I was bored with you."

"I was confused. Nothing else made sense."

"I'm sorry." He shakes his head. "I was a stupid kid. It seems silly apologizing for something I did a lifetime ago, but I _am_ sorry. I don't know what else to say."

"Who was the girl?"

"The girl was my ex. I hadn't seen her in a few months. I got home the night after my first shift at Long and McQuade—the same day I bought you the rose—and found her sitting on the couch in our living room crying. My mother was comforting her. I had no clue what was going on. Vicky had already told my mother her story and I think everything was decided before I stepped foot through the door."

"Her story?"

"Something along the lines of Vicky and me breaking up in the spring before she knew she was pregnant. Then when she found out and told her parents, they gave her a choice—have an abortion or find herself somewhere else to live. She didn't want to have an abortion. Moving out and living on welfare didn't seem to be the best idea either, with a baby to consider. Telling me was her final hope."

Right away, the jilted girlfriend of the past is pushed aside by the protective mother—the Bella I am _now_. I try to imagine turning Carlie out of the house like that. It boggles my mind.

"What kind of parents would do that to their daughter?"

"Vicky's home life was messed up, that's for sure. She was rebellious, promiscuous, always getting grounded and being kicked out. We dated for a couple of months. Long enough for me to figure out I didn't want to get trapped in her life." He smiles grimly. "I guess I got trapped anyway."

"What did your parents say?"

"There was never any question about what I would do. I would take responsibility, and they would help in whatever way they could to make sure things worked out."

"But weren't they angry?"

"I don't think they were surprised, to be honest. My first girlfriends weren't all that impressive. Emmett always brought home the nice, preppy girls, the ones who did well in school. I always ended up with the party girls. Can you imagine how I felt when I met you, Bella? A sweet, smart girl from a good school who was pretty and fun to hang out with at the same time? I couldn't believe my luck."

"I never could quite understand what you saw in me."

"What I saw in you? You were perfect. Finding you seemed too good to be true. I guess that was the case—quite literally."

He folds his wallet closed and shoves it into his back pocket. He tells me about how his mother kept nagging him to tell me what had happened, especially since she was the one who had to field my phone calls in the days after Vicky dropped the bombshell. It took him a week to work up the nerve. Once I was out of the picture, everything fell into place quickly. His parents had the basement renovated into an apartment unit and Vicky moved in. Then, before the baby was born, he and Vicky decided to get married. Edward was married at seventeen to a girl he wouldn't have chosen if he'd actually had a choice and he became a father, unable to pursue an education beyond high school, the burden of responsibility requiring him to work full-time at Long and McQuade instead.

"Of course, that's not the worst of it," he says.

"It gets worse?"

He scrubs at his face with his hand and then laughs. It's a desolate laugh. "Oh yes. It gets worse. We tried. I tried to be a good father. I had no clue what I was doing half the time, but I think I did a pretty good job. When Riley was four, he started kindergarten and Vicky and I got our own apartment. I was working full-time, and Vicky got a part-time job while Riley was at school. We muddled through for a few months—did our best to make it work. But it was doomed to fail. I don't think we realized how much my folks helped us out when we were living with them. We were kids ourselves, when you think of it. We didn't even like each other. We used to argue all the time, about everything, trivial things."

I nod, encouraging him to continue.

"One night we got into this stupid fight. It was a Friday, and she wanted my mom to babysit so we could go out together. All I really wanted to do was go out for a drink with a couple of buddies, play some poker, blow off some steam. Vicky lost her shit. She snapped—said I wasn't even trying to love her—that I never cared about her and Riley and she would have been better off with Jimmy."

"Jimmy? Who was Jimmy?"

"Jimmy was this guy we went to high school with. Turns out she'd been dating both of us at the same time. During our argument that night, she told me _he_ was Riley's father. Not me. Him."

"Edward…no. Oh my God." Now it's my turn to reach for his hand. I can't help myself.

He stares at our joined hands as he talks. "She must have weighed her options when she first found out she was pregnant. Jimmy lived in a really rough housing complex in Toronto. I lived in Rosedale. It wasn't a tough decision."

"She may have been in a terrible position, but I can't imagine lying to someone like that. She changed your whole life—stole your chance to go to school, to be a kid."

"You're right. I was livid. God knows I tried to empathize with her predicament, but all I could think about was what she'd taken from me. Don't get me wrong, I loved that kid. I mean, to this day, I still refer to him as my son. I brought him home from the hospital, for Christ's sake, walked the floors with him when he was crying at night, fed him, changed his diaper. He was mine, you know?"

"Of course," I say, understanding full-well the proprietary feeling of having that little life completely dependent on you. "But that doesn't change the fact that she hijacked your life."

"That's a good way of putting it."

"Did you ever suspect he wasn't yours?"

"Maybe I did. I think I loved him enough to see past the stocky build, the blonde hair and blue eyes that obviously weren't mine or Vicky's. I don't know if I ever would have said anything if she hadn't told me. It's impossible to say, looking back."

"So what happened after she told you?"

"Things got messy. As much as I wanted Vicky the hell out of my life, I was worried about Riley. She said I'd never see him if I cut her off. She threatened to disappear with him. We compromised. She stayed in the apartment and I moved back home. We got a legal separation and eventually divorced. I supported her financially as best I could. Then one day a little after Riley's birthday, she disappeared."

"Disappeared? Where?"

"She located Jimmy. I can't help wondering if she'd found him before we broke up and had her ducks in a row, like she wanted me to find out Riley wasn't mine so she could move on. Jimmy was working in the Ford car plant in Oakville. He was making good money, more than I was, that's for sure. He was happy to hook up with her again. I don't know how Riley figured into things. I did my best to keep tabs on the situation. She let me see him from time to time. Then she and Jimmy moved to North Bay and got married. I hardly ever saw Riley when he was growing up, but I tried not to kick up a fuss. I didn't want to confuse him or bring drama into his life. He had a new father—his real biological father. That picture I showed you was from the last Christmas I got to spend with him."

"I can't even begin to imagine how hard the whole experience would have been for you."

He releases my hand and sits back, taking a long drink of his beer and then recounting the last of his story in a matter-of-fact tone.

"I tried to see the big picture, you know? Like maybe Vicky doing what she did to me was part of a plan to make me a better person. I figured by the time she took off with Jimmy and Riley, I was half way there, but I still had some work to do. I went to Fanshawe College—got a diploma in Music Production and took a few Business courses on the side, fast-tracking four semesters' work into a year and half. I cleaned up my act, quit smoking, started running…"

"Wow, when you turn over a leaf you don't mess around."

"You have no idea. I was like a man possessed. My mother thought I was running away from something, filling my life with distractions. She was wrong. I knew exactly what I wanted." He looks at me pointedly. "I was psyching myself up to run _towards_ something. _Someone_. I needed to make sure I was the man you deserved when I found you again, Bella."

I swallow the lump forming in my throat as I contemplate Edward trying to better himself for me, when he didn't even know where I was.

"Turns out I should have starting looking for you sooner," he says, staring blankly at the table top, as if he can't bear to look at me. "By the time I'd almost completed my diploma and felt like you'd be proud of the man I'd become, it was too late. I looked for you for months but kept hitting dead ends. In July, when I finally tracked you down through Alice, she told me you were engaged."

"Edward, I'm so sorry. I had no idea you'd come looking for me that summer. I wish I'd known."

"What, so you could leave your fiancé at the altar? No, that wouldn't have been right, either. Things weren't meant to be then." He looks at me now, his eyes clouded with emotion. "Maybe they're meant to be now."

I feel my heartbeat thrumming in my neck and he pulls his chair closer to mine, dropping his voice as he speaks.

"I'm not saying we can be teenagers again, but feelings are feelings, Bella. Everyone deserves a second chance, you know?" he says. "Vicky's pregnancy took you away from me, and it wasn't even my doing. I can't believe the universe would be crappy enough to bring you here and then snatch you away from me for a second time."

"You can't recapture the past, Edward."

I don't know why I'm saying this, speaking Alice's words, telling him something I'm so desperate to refute myself. Those feelings he's talking about—I want those feelings back. In the worst way.

He reaches for my hand, taking it in both of his, his eyes beseeching. "I don't want to recapture our past. I want a chance at a future. Maybe this is going to sound weird, but even after spending an hour with you, I've already put the past behind us. _This_—you being right in front of me—it's a hundred times more meaningful than any memories I have of how things felt before. Can't we try to move forward?"

I restrain my desire to pounce on his suggestion. He makes it all seem so easy. "I don't know…"

"You came looking for me for a reason, Bella. We can take it slowly. Get to know each other again. Please give me a chance? Don't decide without thinking about it." He looks out at the city's skyline before turning back to me. "Look, give me one day before you make up your mind. One day. That's all I ask."

"One day. What do you mean?"

"Spend one day with me. No fanfare. No tricks—a day in my life with you by my side. If you don't want to see me again after spending one day together, then fine. I'll walk away and leave you alone."

"That's quite a gamble."

"More like a desperate plea." His eyes bore into mine. "Say yes, Bella. Please?"

What little resolve I may have had moments before evaporates.

"One day?" I say.

"One day. Twelve hours."

"When?"

"When? I don't know. As soon as possible. How about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? Seriously?"

"Why not? Why wait? Are you free?"

"Yes, I think so." I think so? Carlie won't be home until nine o'clock. The day is entirely my own. I have no excuse—nothing to cancel. "No, I'm free. Tomorrow's good."

"Perfect. Let's meet in the morning and then for the next twelve hours, you're mine. Deal?"

I think, but only for a minute. I turn my hand in his and squeeze his fingers.

"Deal."

X-X-X

I don't wait until I'm home to call Alice. I call her from the car, whispering frantically into my cellphone in the backseat while the driver listens to talk radio in front of me. I try not to sound too smug, but I'm eager to let her know that not only did I find Edward, but that he's far and away beyond the man I hoped he'd be. As badly as he'd broken my heart all those years ago, he had no choice because he was manning up and taking responsibility for what he honestly thought was his own carelessness—his adolescent libido coupled with a failed condom—a recipe for unplanned parenthood.

The fact that he'd taken responsibility for someone else's mistake and lost over four years of his life in the process has stirred my empathy beyond anything I'd thought possible where Edward was concerned. I try to convey the magnitude of my respect for him to Alice, assuming she'll completely understand the rationale for my feelings. She merely responds with a few unintelligible huffy sounds.

"Don't you see, Alice?" I say, pressing onward. "Edward came looking for me in 1991 because he finally felt as if he was worthy. And then it was too late."

"I hope you're not suggesting that I should have told you he'd come to see me. He didn't tell me any of that stuff. I thought I was doing the right thing."

"I'm not saying that at all. I'm hoping you'll see that Edward looking for me back then wasn't a booty call or some spontaneous thing he decided to do one day for a lark. He still cared about me. If he was the asshole you thought he was, he _would_ have told you his story, to sway your thinking. He stepped away because you told him I was engaged. He did the honourable thing."

"I can't believe you actually found him at the Ex today," she says. "What a coincidence."

I'm more than a little miffed that she's chosen to completely sidestep my comments about Edward's character, but I bite back the pointed remark I'd dearly love to make. "Maybe it wasn't a coincidence, Alice. Maybe it was meant to be."

"Meant to be? You're not fatalistic in the slightest. Are those Edward's words?"

"Does it matter? What difference does it make why or how we found each other? The important thing is that we _did_ find each other."

I can't bring myself to believe that I'm at fate's mercy. I found Edward because I consciously made the decision to go to the CNE, armed with information that would put me in the right place at the right time. That's not fate. That's taking the bull by the horns, damn it.

"And how did you leave things? You planning a dirty weekend away at a hotel or something?"

Her tone isn't an excited conspiratorial one. It's verging on snarky. I close my eyes and count to five. "No. Of course not. We barely know each other."

"He didn't make a move on you?"

"He was a perfect gentleman. He made absolutely no advances, not even a hug. We kind of held hands while he was telling me his awful story. I reached out to him. I couldn't help wanting to comfort him."

"I guess not."

"We're going to spend the day together tomorrow. Talk. Get to know each other a little. Can you at least try to be happy for me?"

"I'm trying, Bella."

"It doesn't sound like it. To be perfectly honest, you sound kind of pissed."

"I'm not pissed. I'm being the voice of reason. Maybe you've forgotten what a train wreck you were after he broke up with you, but I haven't. It scares me that he could do that to you after only a month of dating back then. What if he still has the same effect on you now, and things go badly again?"

"That's a chance I'm willing to take, Alice. You don't know what it's like spending years getting absolutely no validation in your marriage and then being divorced and spending a year not turning a single head. It's completely demoralizing."

"What about when you were volunteering at the public library? There was that cute Russian guy you bonded with."

"Stefan was Romanian and he was gay, Alice. We bonded over books about shoes and makeup."

"Oh, right. Well, I remember you telling me something about a guy who volunteered with you at the Seniors' Centre who was really taken with you—"

"You know who was taken with me, Alice? Harry—a 94 year-old-resident, not a volunteer. Harry died in his sleep one night after a grueling game of chess. Remember that's why I stopped going there? Everyone I got attached to died." I close my eyes and take a quiet cleansing breath. "I can't believe we're having this conversation. Trust me, Alice. There's been no one, not a single man in years—including Mike—who's made me feel the way Edward made me feel in the space of one hour this evening. I'm not walking away from this without giving it a shot."

"Oh God, Bella." I can almost see Alice holding her fist against her forehead.

"You said you were going to be supportive tonight," I remind her. "I'm totally not feeling the support." I wonder if that support was conditional on me calling Alice with a tale of woe instead of a story full of excitement and promise.

"Okay. You're right. I'm just trying to be logical—trying to look at the ways this could go badly instead of only seeing the positives."

"Sounds to me like you're kind of _hoping_ it'll go badly."

She doesn't say anything for a minute, and I stare out the window as the buildings flash by.

"I'm sorry, Bella. I don't mean to be a horrible friend. That's not my intention. I'm just trying to help you keep some perspective. I know you're going to do what you want, regardless of how I feel, and you should. You don't need my blessing. Can you promise you won't leap into this head first, though? Take things slowly? I'll kill him if he crushes you again and then I'll be really pissed off at him for making me resort to homicide."

I promise Alice I won't leap into anything, but I'm not convinced she believes me. As I stare out the window and remember Edward's face, the way his eyes had sparkled when I told him I'd spend the day with him tomorrow, I don't even believe myself.

... ... ...

**Thanks so much for reading and for recommending my story to your friends.**

**R**

**xo**


	16. Hopeful

**PART TWO**

* * *

**Chapter 16 - Hopeful**

**Monday September 2**

**Bella**

* * *

There's a knock on the door at eight a.m. Damn it. The car. It's early.

I've barely had two sips of my coffee and I haven't finished putting my makeup on. I don't know about this car service—half an hour late one day, twenty minutes early the next. I'll have to ask Mike if he's been having problems with them when I speak to him next.

I brush my teeth as I run around the house collecting my things. Without enough time to prioritize, I'm forced to focus on the essentials. I stupidly forgot to charge my phone overnight. It's only been plugged in for twenty minutes. Not long enough to completely charge it. I have no choice but to yank it free of the cord and throw it into my purse along with my house keys and a few items from my makeup bag. I barely slept. I'm definitely going to need a little extra boost.

I don't know how men do it—managing to look presentable without a stitch of cosmetic intervention. As for Edward, he takes presentable to a whole new level. During our emotionally heightened meeting the night before, he'd looked gorgeous the entire time.

Shocked and gorgeous.

Wistful and gorgeous.

Hopeful and gorgeous.

Sexy. And gorgeous.

I have no doubt he'll look just as spectacular today, and then there'll be me, looking spectacularly exhausted and altogether not gorgeous. As it is, I feel like a slob, but I'm following his suggestion that I wear something comfortable—_jeans and your favorite concert T-shirt_, he'd said—and so here I am, in denims and my Pearl Jam shirt, which I'd eventually found at the back of one of Carlie's drawers.

I'm consciously acknowledging what I assume is one of Edward's favourite current bands with my choice of shirt. If he took his nephew to see them, surely they don't fall under the umbrella of shitty, corporate crap. Unlike my feeble attempts to _pretend_ to like the same music as him back when we were teenagers, it appears that now, I might legitimately share his taste.

I force myself not to think about other things of his I'd like to share—and other things of his I'd like to taste. It's way too early in the morning.

Once I'm in the car and the driver has pulled onto the highway, I apply some makeup, doing my best to conceal the shadows under my eyes and trying to perk myself up with a little bronzer, mascara and lip gloss before tossing everything back in my purse.

I send Carlie a quick good morning text. I certainly don't expect her to answer at this hour, but I figure it's a good idea to check in before I'm with Edward and too distracted to remember my name, let alone anything else. I lean back and close my eyes. I'm merely trying to rest. I certainly don't mean to fall asleep, but that's exactly what happens. In fact, I'm so out of it by the time we arrive downtown that the driver has to get out of the car and open my door to shake me awake.

"We're here, Mrs. Newton," he says, pointing in the direction of a restaurant across the street and half a block away. "This is the closest parking spot I could get."

"Of course, that's fine," I say, rubbing the crick out of my neck as I climb out of the car.

"You haven't booked a return car. Did you want to do that now?" he asks me.

I briefly consider my options. Should I go ahead and book something just in case, or assume Edward will take me home? It's not like I'll be completely stranded if things don't go well. I can always grab a cab.

"I think I'll leave it for now," I say. I tip him and set off for the restaurant designated by Edward as our meeting point, frankly relieved that I'm twenty-five minutes early. I'll have time to down a large cup of coffee and pull myself together before Edward's nine o'clock arrival. The thought of coffee puts a little extra spring in my step, as does the aroma that greets me as I walk through the door.

_Please Wait to be Seated_, a sign by the entrance tells me. I scan the restaurant, hoping to catch the eye of a waitress, but instead, I see Edward. He's already here, sitting in a booth in the corner. My stomach lurches, mostly in anticipation of spending the day with him, but there's another reason for this particular tummy flip flop. Edward's not alone. Across the table from him is a kid, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old. It's not his nephew.

I take a couple of unwitting steps backwards, unsure of what to make of this unexpected breakfast guest. I can't help but assume that this dark-haired boy must be Edward's son—an _actual_ son, a child from another more recent relationship—and he's decided to be completely upfront with me about this from the start. What better way to break the news and gauge my reaction than to introduce me to the child?

I try to remain inconspicuous so that I can observe them interacting, but the hostess greets me cheerily before I have a chance to move away from the door. Edward immediately looks my way and quickly pushes himself out of the booth to cross the restaurant.

"Hey, you're early," he says.

He seems uneasy. I share his discomfort. Should I offer him my cheek? Lean forward for a quick hug? He puts his hands on his hips and the moment passes. It would be odd to make either overture now. Plus, I'm well aware of how vulnerable his proximity makes me. I need to be careful.

"I know, I'm sorry. My timing…" I gesture behind me at some unknown entity, the car that dropped me off, I suppose. "I guess my timing was a little off."

"That's fine," he assures me. "It's great. I was just…" He looks over his shoulder. "I didn't think you'd be here until nine. But it's okay."

"Are you sure? If I'm intruding…"

"No, no, not at all. Come on over."

He leads me to the table and I take in his appearance as we walk. He's wearing jeans and a dark blue button-down shirt, untucked. The shirt hugs his shoulders magnificently and does fabulous things for his eyes. It also does great things for his ass, at least the part of his ass that I can see. I realize this makes no sense, but his ass looks great. Logic be damned. I'm sleep deprived.

I pull my black wrap on as we walk, trying to kick my appearance up a notch. Why had Edward told me to wear jeans and a tee and then proceeded to pair his own jeans with such a fantastic shirt? I really don't have time to fret about how I look. We reach the table and Edward ushers me into the booth. The boy is scarfing back a massive pile of pancakes. Edward's spot is empty except for a coffee cup. Once I'm settled, he slides in beside me.

The kid stops chewing and looks across the table with inquisitive brown eyes. "Hey," he says.

"Hi." I examine his face. His features are soft, his skin a rich tan. He looks nothing like Edward, but then again, Carlie is all me. You'd never know Mike was her dad from looking at her.

"Seth, this is the lady I was telling you about. Bella, this is Seth," Edward says.

"Is he your son?" I half-whisper.

Seth laughs. "Did you get that, Edward? Your son? Imma tell my mom that." He shakes his hand, so his fingers make a snapping sound. "She wishes."

I look back and forth between the two of them. Edward narrows his eyes at the boy playfully and Seth continues chuckling as he shoves food into his mouth.

"I'm Seth's Big Brother," Edward explains.

"You have a younger brother? How is that possible? Isn't your mother in her late sixties?"

Seth laughs again and Edward shakes his head at him. "Not his _older_ brother, his _Big Brother_. You've heard of Big Brothers and Sisters of Toronto?"

Mortified, I palm my forehead and close my eyes as the two of them laugh at me. Two minutes into our twelve hour day and I'm already making a total idiot of myself.

X-X-X

Although he was supposed to have left by nine, Seth stays until nine-thirty, attacking a second mountain of pancakes. I order poached eggs with honeydew melon and rye toast, one slice of which ends up on Seth's plate. He also eats a couple of slices of Edward's bacon and a handful of his home fries, all chased down by an enormous glass of chocolate milk.

I've never witnessed such a voracious appetite. I'm instantly struck by how different boys and girls are. Even when Carlie does succumb to a gluttonous binge—making her way through a few bags of chips with her friends or creeping to the kitchen before bed for a giant bowl of ice-cream—she always suffers from endless recriminations after the fact, regretting her moment of weakness. I can't imagine Seth regretting any mouthful of the breakfast he's ingested.

During breakfast, I don't say much, content to listen to Edward and Seth chatting about basketball, video games, girls, and the least enjoyable of the topics—at least where Seth seems to be concerned—the upcoming school year.

Edward throws out a few platitudes, reminding Seth that you only get one chance to make a first impression and warning him that his subjects will be harder this year, but the greatest of all failures is not to try your best. Seth rolls his eyes a lot, but I can see past the bravado. There's no doubt that he holds Edward in the highest esteem. It's heart-warming to see the impact Edward is able to have in this kid's life.

When he stands to make his way home, Seth shakes my hand good-bye, earning a shoulder squeeze and a proud smile from Edward. Seth puts his ball cap on as Edward walks him to the door. They stop in the entrance for a moment and Edward hands him a knapsack, opening the zipper and showing him the contents. After a quick farewell hug and pat on the back, Seth is on his way.

"Well, this is better," Edward says, as he returns to the table and slides into the bench across from me. "Now I can actually see you. Sorry he commandeered our breakfast. He was supposed to be gone by nine and you'd have been none the wiser."

"I'm glad I had a chance to meet him. There was no need for you to rearrange your day to accommodate me. It was nice watching you interact. He's a neat kid."

"He really is. I didn't rearrange things much. We were supposed to meet at nine. I moved things up an hour."

"He must enjoy your company. I'd have one hell of a time getting Carlie out of bed before eight on a holiday."

"He knows what side his bread is buttered. If he hadn't joined me for breakfast, he wouldn't have gotten his backpack today."

"You bought it for him?"

"I've been doing that for years. Every Labour Day weekend I give him a new one. New bag, new lunch bag, paper, binders, pens. You know, all the stuff he'll need for school."

"You've been doing that for years, huh? Exactly how long have you been his Big Brother?"

Edward examines my eyes. "Why do I get the sense you already know the answer to that question?"

"I'm not sure. Should I guess?"

"Please do."

"I'm going to say ten years. Since he was…six years old?"

"Huh. Not just a pretty face and a rockin' body after all."

I almost spray coffee at him through my nose, but settle for a splutter and bad case of watery eyes.

"Don't you dare get all self-deprecating on me," Edward says, grinning as he watches me dab my eyes with my napkin. "You really do look amazing. You work out, right?"

"Not to the degree you do, I'm sure. I run a little, do some yoga and Pilates. Just enough to make sure the muffin top man doesn't come knocking at my door."

"If the muffin top man comes knocking at your door, I'd like to know about it. I'll give him or any other man that comes knocking at your door a piece of my mind and a run for his money."

"I see you haven't lost your ability to sweet talk."

He smiles at me, throwing in a wink for extra measure. God, I'm screwed. Not only has he not lost his ability to charm my pants off, he's honed and refined his talent. My brain tells me to proceed with caution, which makes me wonder how the hell Alice got inside my head.

"Anyway, you changed the subject," I say. "We were talking about Seth. You've been his Big Brother since he was six. How'd that come about?"

"I guess I started thinking about how it seemed as if I'd never have a child of my own. I have a great relationship with my nephew, but he has two amazing parents. He doesn't _need_ me the way Seth does. I did a little bit of research and ended up approaching the Big Brothers organization. They're always desperate for people."

"And you looked specifically for a six-year-old."

"I guess I wanted to see what I missed out on with Riley. The milestones and developmental stuff I didn't get to witness."

"Perfectly understandable. He seems to really look up to you."

"I hope so. I've been a consistent presence in his life for a long time. Kids like him need that."

"Kids like him? Meaning?"

"Meaning his dad died when he was five, and his mother had to work hard to make ends meet. It's so easy for kids like him to fall through the cracks if there's no one there to grab them by the scruff of the neck and pull them back."

"I know what it's like to lose your dad when you're young. For a boy, that would be doubly difficult."

Edward draws his head back sharply. "Your father passed away? Why did I think your folks had divorced?"

"I don't know. I didn't used to talk about it much. My father—Charlie—he was a police officer. He was killed in the line of duty when I was eight. My mother met Phil when I was ten and they married a couple of years later."

"Charlie. You named your daughter after him?"

"Yes, kind of, I guess." I find myself staring blankly at the wall over Edward's shoulder. "He was a good dad. I wish he could have been a grandfather to Carlie. Not that Phil isn't a great grandpa," I add hastily.

"But no one can replace your dad," Edward says, his voice gentle.

"Exactly."

He shakes his head and frowns. "I'm sorry you lost your dad so young. I still can't believe I didn't know that about you. God, what did we talk about back then?"

"Talk? Did we ever talk?"

"Good point."

We both laugh, and my face burns with the suggestive undertones of this shared memory. The waitress swings by wielding the coffee pot. I'm grateful for the distraction.

"Another?" Edward asks, gesturing to my cup.

"I think I need it, thanks."

We both sit back as our mugs are refilled. Before walking away, the waitress slips the bill under the sugar bowl and clears our plates, telling us there's no rush. That's a good thing. I don't think rushing is in my vocabulary today. I stifle a yawn with the back of my hand.

"Tired?" Edward says.

"That's one word for it."

"You didn't sleep well?"

"I don't think I slept at all."

"I admit I had some trouble, too. I was up at four wandering around the house."

"Me too. You should have called me. We could have kept each other company."

"I wish I'd had your phone number. I would have loved the opportunity to do that."

I drop my eyes and smile down at my cup as I top up my sugar and milk.

"God, when I think of the number of times I wished I had your phone number over the last twenty years," he says, smirking at me across the lip of his mug. "What was your step-dad's last name?"

"Dwyer."

"_Dwyer_. Do you realize that's what kept us apart in '91? Five measly letters. I must have looked up every damn Swan in Ontario. I had no clue you had a different last name than your parents."

He gives his coffee another stir, avoiding my gaze. I want to reach over and gently erase the sadness etched in the lines around his eyes. So much unnecessary unhappiness caused by misunderstandings and unfortunate circumstances. Life just isn't fair sometimes.

"I wish I'd known, Edward. Honestly."

I don't know why I'm saying this again. Edward told me he wouldn't have wanted me abandoning Mike two months before our wedding, but in bed last night, I'd lain awake wondering what might have happened if I'd known he was looking for me all those years ago. Would I have still married Mike? Could I have been happy with Edward? Would we have had children of our own? These are futile thoughts, but I can't seem to bring a halt to the speculations.

"What about now?" he says. "Are you still using your married name or have you changed it back?"

"Newton," I say. "I considered reverting to my maiden name, but I think I'll wait until Carlie's finished high school. Less complicated for her when we're dealing with the school."

"You'll always be Bella Swan to me. Would you be terribly offended if I pretended your ex doesn't exist?"

He's smiling, but I can't help hearing warning bells.

"He does exist, Edward. I'm sorry, but he's my daughter's father. We don't have more contact than necessary, but we can't pretend he doesn't exist."

"I know," he says. "I just need some time to adjust to the idea. Don't forget, I've found you after decades of missing you like a crazy man, and he was the one who got to spend those years with you instead of me. Humour me while I have a little alpha male moment, okay?"

I try not to pass out sideways on the bench from the image of him missing me like a crazy man. I focus on his alpha male comment, instead. I suppose I can't fault him for wishing we could erase Mike and all of our mutual baggage. If only we could be teenagers again, linking hands and wandering along carefree, oblivious to the cares of the world.

"Of course, even if I'd managed to track you down somewhere along the line, I don't know what I would have done," he adds. "As much as I missed you, I assumed you were happily married. I never would've interfered, I hope you know that." He catches my wry smile. "Then again if you ended up divorcing, maybe you _weren't _happily married. Mind if I ask what happened?"

"Not really." I shrug and trace the lip of my mug. "It was probably doomed from the start. I blamed myself. My therapist said assigning blame was counterproductive, but I know I made a bad choice. I made the safe choice."

Edward's eyebrows shoot up. "You saw a therapist?"

"I'm still seeing one. I'm not a head case, don't worry."

"I'd never suggest that. I have the highest respect for therapists and anyone who has the guts to talk to one. I honestly think most people would benefit from talking to an impartial third party about their feelings. So what do you mean by a _safe choice_?" He leans forward, perching his chin on his fist, giving me one-hundred percent of his attention.

"A safe choice? I don't know. I suppose I chose someone I could contentedly live with, but that I could live without just as easily. If something went wrong, losing him wouldn't ruin me."

Admitting this embarrasses me. Edward doesn't seem to know what to say.

"That's exactly what happened, too," I say, saving him the effort of having to come up with an appropriate response. "I was completely void of feeling when Mike and I split. I thought there was something wrong with me. That's why I went to see a therapist in the first place."

"And what did your therapist say?"

"Something about me grieving the end of the relationship long before it ended so that by the time we went our separate ways, I'd exhausted my feelings. That's when I had to admit that I'd never felt a whole lot of sadness about splitting from Mike, except for the fact that it would turn Carlie's life upside down."

Edward nods his agreement, but doesn't say anything. I barrel along, apparently incapable of stopping now that I've started telling him about the collapse of my marriage.

"The funny thing about seeing a therapist is that even though they don't know you from a hole in the ground, you still need them to know you're not a wretched person," I say. "I shared the story of my relationship with you and how I was so devastated when you and I broke up. It's like I needed to prove I had the capacity to feel a loss like that."

"Makes perfect sense to me. So how did you and Mike meet?"

"He went to my school, but I never really talked to him. Oddly enough, he was there the night you broke things off."

"He was?"

"Yes. With his parents. He rescued me after you left. I was sick. He helped me."

"Wow."

"I know. We started dating right after that night, but there were never fireworks. Mike was always very even keeled. Marrying Mike was safe because he never fully occupied my heart. Not the way you did, Edward, even though we were only together for a short time."

As our eyes lock across the table, I feel my pulse thumping in my temple. He looks horrified.

"That makes me feel even shittier than ever. I mean, it's flattering as hell…but God, I feel awful," he says.

"Don't beat yourself up. None of us is responsible for other people's happiness. You certainly had your own issues to contend with."

"Maybe so, but now I feel this overwhelming need to make it up to you. Jesus."

He scrubs his face with one hand and then rests it on the table, tapping his thumb and looking at me with a pained expression.

"Well, breakfast was a great start," I say, resting my hand atop his and trying to smile brightly. "What's next?"

I stop short of suggesting a nap. A nap with benefits.

He spins his hand underneath mine, so we're palm to palm. Staring at our joined hands, he traces a gentle line up and down the side of my pinkie finger with his thumb. "I wouldn't mind spending the next hour just like this."

He smiles across the table at me. It's a sad smile, but there's a hopefulness lurking under the surface. I smile back.

An hour like this? It's not quite a nap with benefits, but I could quite easily spend an hour like this, my hand becoming reacquainted with his while my eyes familiarize themselves with the mature angles and planes of his handsome face.

Yes, this I can do.

... ... ...

**Thanks for reading, and to everyone who's been recommending my story and talking it up on my behalf, thank you so much. As always, it's a pleasure to share and a joy to read your kind reviews.**

**R**


	17. Responsibility

**Chapter 17 - Responsibility**

* * *

Hypothetically a nice idea, I can't help thinking that staring at each other for an hour would actually be a little odd. Carlie would probably call it _creepy_. Perhaps Edward agrees because within fifteen minutes, he's paid, despite my efforts to contribute, and we're packed up and on our way. He reaches for my hand as he directs me across the road, but then he doesn't let go once we're on the sidewalk and heading for his car.

I'm okay with this. I'm actually really okay with it. I'm quite enjoying the comforting warmth of Edward's hand and the reassuring pressure of his thumb rubbing across my knuckles. His hands are strong, his long fingers enveloping mine completely. I try not to get too giddy. It's just a little hand holding. No big deal.

So why does it feel like such a big deal?

He flashes his keys at a sports utility vehicle parked at the curb up ahead. It's silver and has a bike rack on the back and a roof rack on the top.

Apparently, Edward is a fan of racks. I hope mine can pass muster.

At the car, he's the consummate gentleman, opening the door, holding my elbow as I climb in, and waiting for me to get settled before closing the door behind me. Watching him slide into the driver's seat, I can't help remembering the only other time we were in a vehicle together all those years ago. Unlike Emmett's truck, this vehicle doesn't have a front bench seat.

How unfortunate.

I stuff this rogue thought back where it came from, which I'm guessing is somewhere in that recently revisited memory bank containing all of the steamy recollections of the time I spent with Edward in 1984.

"Sorry it's not very glamorous," Edward apologizes as he pulls out of his parking spot. "I'm always lugging gear and equipment around. Plus I tend to go on a lot of road trips for races. I need the space and the storage room."

"I'm not judging you based on the car you drive, if that's what you're worried about. I've never cared much about cars. As far as I'm concerned, as long as I can get from A to B safely, I'm happy. "

"And what do you drive?" he asks me.

I take a deep breath, realizing I'm about to sound like a total hypocrite. "A Cadillac. It's just a sedan. Nothing flashy," I add hastily.

He laughs at the road ahead, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel as he navigates traffic. "So you don't care about cars, but you drive a Cadillac?" he says, glancing at me quickly and raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Not my choice, honestly. It was all Mike. The monster house, the cars, the gadgets…" I shake my head and avert my eyes, turning to stare out my side window, feeling like an idiot.

Edward reaches for my hand. "Hey," he says, threading his fingers through mine, his voice softening. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to suggest…I mean…I was only kidding. I sense I've hit a nerve."

"It's okay," I say, shrugging and busying myself by digging through my purse with my free hand. "Mike was on a constant mission to get ahead. Being successful was very important to him. I was along for the ride, I suppose." I pull my phone from my purse. Anxious to change the subject, I extricate my hand from his grasp so that I can scroll through my messages. "Sorry about this. I should check to see if my daughter texted me."

"No worries."

Carlie has sent me a message, responding to my good morning greeting and telling me she's looking forward to coming home. I send her a quick reply reminding her to try to enjoy herself because who knows when she'll see her dad again. When she doesn't answer right away, I pop my phone back into my bag, stowing it at my feet. I'll check in again later.

"She doing okay?" Edward asks me, bobbing his head at my purse.

"She's fine. She probably misses her friends. I'm sure her phone is getting a workout between Facebook and Twitter."

"I can't stand all that stuff," Edward says. "Social media. No one seems to be able to do anything anymore without posting pictures everywhere to prove what a great time they had. I don't get it."

I briefly consider asking him why he has a Facebook account if he hates it so much, but that would entail admitting that I know he has a Facebook account.

"For me, my phone is my lifeline to Carlie," I say.

"Of course. That makes sense. If it wasn't for the business, I'd be quite happy not having a phone. I rarely turn it on if I can help it," he explains.

It's true. I haven't seen Edward take out a cell phone once in the time we've been together. Granted, I've only spent a few hours in his company, but Mike always seemed to have a phone stuck to his ear, regardless of what we were doing. There were times when I seriously considered suggesting a surgical procedure to excise the damn thing from the side of his head. I have no desire to discuss Mike's cell phone habits with Edward. Mentioning his name in any context is something I'm keen to avoid at this point.

I turn my attention to the neighbourhood we've entered instead, trying to get my bearings. "Wait, this is Rosedale, right? Aren't we near your old house? Do your parents still live here? Are we going to see them?"

"No, they don't live here anymore," Edward says. "They sold the house about ten years ago. They've retired and moved to Arizona."

"Nice. My mom and step-dad are in Florida. They come home for two months in the summer."

"Do you ever go down there?"

"Sometimes. It's definitely convenient to have a place to visit in the winter."

"Absolutely."

I stare out my window, watching the houses go by. After two more left turns, Edward pulls up to the curb in front of a well-kept two-storey house. He opens the window and rests his elbow on the door frame. "That's my place."

"I was wondering where you were taking me," I say, eagerly leaning over the armrest between us to get a better look. "It's very nice. Your garden is beautiful."

"Can't take credit for that. Everything was here when I moved in. All I do is wrestle with the shrubs when they get too overgrown."

I move to undo my seat belt, but Edward stops my hand. "Wait, we're not getting out."

"Aren't you going to take me inside? Show me around?" I ask him.

"On our first date? Absolutely not." He winks at me and my heart flutters a little. "Besides, it's mass chaos inside. I'll have to clean up properly before I let you look around. I just wanted to show you that I have a fixed address. A house screams responsibility, right?"

"Ah, I see."

He smiles, seeming pleased with himself, and pulls out of his spot.

"Let's call this the responsibility and commitment tour," he says, grinning at me. "Stop one, my mortgage."

"Actually, I think this is stop two. I imagine being a Big Brother is a huge responsibility. I'd say Seth was stop one."

"That's true," he agrees. "I really hadn't intended for you to meet Seth today, but I guess you're right. I'm a hundred percent committed to helping him as much as I can. So, are you ready for stop three?"

"Bring it on." I settle into my seat, smiling along with him and marveling at how comfortable I already feel.

Comfortable could be dangerous, but right now, it just feels…_comfortable_.

X-X-X

As we drive further and further south, gradually approaching the Esplanade, I realize what our second stop of the morning will be. Edward's taking me to his studio. A mortgage may boast of responsibility, but a owning this studio screams commitment, not to mention organization, reliability and business savvy.

He turns onto a narrow alleyway which takes us to a small parking area behind the building.

"Am I allowed to get out this time, or is this just a drive-by examination of the dumpsters in the alley behind your studio?" I ask, my hand hovering over the seat belt button.

"You're allowed out, smartypants," he says, parking and coming around to collect me from the passenger side. "You might want to plug your nose though. It's been a warm week. Things are a little ripe out here."

I take his advice, pinching my nose as we dash towards the studio's unmarked back entrance. Edward swings open the metal door and leads me into a narrow hallway which leads to a wider corridor and brings us out to the front of the studio.

"You didn't get a tour the other day, did you?" he asks, as we stand in the middle of the reception area.

"No, this was as far as I made it. I did have a good look at the pictures on the bulletin board," I tell him, once again moving around the desk to check out the cork board and the clippings attached to it.

"That's Garrett," he says, pointing to the photo of him with the blonde and the dark-haired guy. "My business partner."

I bite back my desire to ask about the woman in the picture despite my overwhelming curiosity. Edward takes a couple of steps back and cranes his neck around the other side of the room. "Can you hear music?" he says, motioning for me to follow him down another hallway to the right of the reception area.

He pushes open a set of double doors, and sure enough, there's music piping from an iPod dock on the floor of a large room. There's a platform set up at one end of the room, lights mounted on the ceiling and aimed at the stage. It must be a concert space. Two women are in the midst of painting a mural on the long wall opposite the doors.

Edward takes a few decisive steps forward and rests his hands on his hips. This seems to be one of his signature moves. I must confess, I find this stance enjoyable—his shoulders, his arms, the strength of his chest when he adopts this pose—all fodder for dreamy sighs. I try not to sigh dreamily right now. There are two attractive blondes across the room. I put on my game face instead.

"Kate? Tanya? What are you doing?" Edward says.

They both straighten, simultaneously turning to look at Edward in surprise. One of them is pregnant—about six months, I estimate. Her shoulders slump and she drops the paint brush onto a piece of newspaper on the floor before crossing to give him a careful hug, trying not to touch his shirt with her messy hands.

"Edward! You're not supposed to be here today. We wanted to surprise you."

"Well," he says, "mission accomplished."

The other blonde moves in for a hug as well, dropping a kiss on his cheek in the process. I feel a number of emotions as I watch this exchange, none of them pleasant.

"Hi Tanya," Edward says, stepping quickly out of her embrace and nodding at the wall. "This is really something. Does Garrett know?"

"Garrett dropped us off. He's gone to get us something to eat. He hired the artist who sketched it. He came by to do it last night while you were out with your family. I think Gar was afraid you might try to do it yourself if he didn't act quickly."

Edward chuckles. "Not likely. Not my area of expertise." He looks back at me then, beckoning me forward with his hand. "Bella, this is Kate. She's my business partner's wife. And this is her sister, Tanya."

They both smile at me.

"It's nice to meet you both," I say, extending my hand. They both grimace, holding up paint-splotched hands to wave instead.

They seem pleasant enough, but something in Tanya's expression tells me she's not entirely thrilled to see Edward with a woman. I'd brush her reaction off if it weren't for the fact that she's the blonde from the newspaper clipping. She shares his passion for athleticism. They have some sort of history together. She's his business partner's sister-in-law.

The whole scenario screams _double dates_, possibly years of them.

"Ladies, this is Bella, a friend of mine from—what would you say, Bella? High school?" He looks at me quizzically. "We didn't actually go to high school together, though..."

"Wait," Kate says as she leans forward, appraising me a little more carefully. "Is this the Bella you dated before Vicky…"

She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't need to. Edward slips his hand around my waist and nods, confirming that yes, indeed, I'm the one he dated before Vicky…did whatever you'd call what she did.

Though we've only ventured into hand holding territory thus fur, Edward's hand now tightens at my waist, and I find myself responding, leaning into his side and resting my hand on his stomach, feeling proprietary—an entirely childish reaction—as if Edward is a toy whose appeal has increased exponentially now that I suspect someone else might want to play. Might want _him_.

If I'm being honest with myself, I know it doesn't matter if there's someone else who wants Edward. I'm sure I want him more. I've just been wary of tipping my hand to Edward this early in the game. Funny how this attractive blonde's expression is enough to make me want to throw my cards on the table and jab my finger in her face, shouting, _Ha, take that! I've got a Royal Flush!_

"Wow, so you finally found her after all these years," Kate says. "We thought you were a white rabbit or something." She smiles archly. Tanya doesn't look quite as amused.

"Definitely not a white rabbit," Edward says, winking at me. "Anyway, don't let us get in your way. I'm giving Bella a quick tour of the place. Keep up the good work." He starts pulling me towards the door.

"You're welcome, Edward!" Kate calls out after us.

"Thank you, dear," Edward replies. "I promise you a full day of free babysitting once the critter arrives."

"I'll hold you to that," she warns him. "Oh, check your messages while you're here! Your mailbox is full."

"Will do," Edward calls back over his shoulder. He chuckles to himself as he leads me back to the front reception area and into a hallway behind it.

"Sweet of them to surprise you," I say. "They seem very nice."

"They're good people," he agrees, the vagueness of his reply perfectly on par with the wishy-washiness of my observation.

Edward proceeds to takes me on a methodical tour of the rest of the studio. There are six rooms devoted to lessons, each one with a piano except for the last one, which contains a full drum kit. There's also a recording space with a lot of very complicated looking equipment arranged on a long table, a small glassed-in room beyond it. Next door to this room, there's a comfortable open area with several tables and easy chairs scattered around the space.

"Parents' lounge," Edward says. "For when they're waiting for their kids. We want everyone to be comfortable."

"I like it. Very smart."

We walk past a closed door without entering. "Garrett's office," Edward explains. "And this is my office." He pushes open the final door in the hallway and lets me walk in ahead of him. It's a compact room, the walls covered with music memorabilia, framed concert tickets, LP covers and a three-dimensional piece of art made entirely of guitar picks. A small desk sits in front of the window. I lean against it, curling my fingers around the beveled edge of the surface as I look around. Edward swivels his neck, peering up at the ceiling, examining the items adorning the walls, as if he's seeing it for the first time.

"It's cool," I say, scanning the room again.

"It's small, but serves its purpose. Have a little poke around if you want. I'm just going to check messages quickly. If that's okay?" he says, hesitating before sitting down behind his desk.

"Please. Do what you need to do."

Edward rolls his chair up to the desk and checks his voice mail, scribbling on a pad of paper as he works his way through his messages. I take the opportunity to have a closer look at some of the items around the room—certificates of various college programs, news clippings about concerts, races and community events. On his bookshelf there's a framed picture of Edward with a handful of teenagers, all holding different instruments. They're standing smiling behind a group of elderly people.

"What's this all about?" I say, pointing at the picture as Edward comes up behind me.

"That was in June. Those are kids who take lessons here. I organized a little ensemble. We practice twice a month and we go to local Senior Citizens' centers to play. They're good kids. It helps them get their Community Service hours for their diplomas."

"Nice idea."

"I think so."

"And this is a great shot," I say, pointing at yet another finish-line photo of him with Garrett and the blonde, whose name I now know is Tanya. Garrett is perched on a bicycle.

"That was a relay triathlon," Edward explains. "I ran and Tanya did the swim."

I tell myself not to think about what she looks like in a bathing suit.

"So where did you and Garrett meet?"

"At an open mic night, God, years ago. We were both kind of drifting. Not sure what we wanted to do. We started jamming, got to talking and realized we'd both love to open a music studio. The running and the races came later."

"And you get along well with Kate as well. That's good."

"She's a sweetheart. She'll be a great mom. They've had a rocky go of it—a few miscarriages. This is their last chance. She's pushing forty-one. If this pregnancy hadn't worked out, I don't think they would have tried again. She belongs to the running club too, but as soon as she found out she was pregnant, she packed it in. We usually enter races together, the four of us. For the past six months she hasn't been able to join us."

Perhaps he thinks he's successfully deflecting my attention from Tanya by rambling on about Kate. He's not. The image of those double dates has come into sharper focus, regardless of his efforts.

"And how old is Tanya?" I ask, pretending nothing more than polite interest.

"Almost thirty-nine, I think?"

Thirty-nine. I remember thirty-nine, standing on the brink of forty, staring into this abyss which seemed full of age spots, cellulite, wrinkles and aching joints. What I'd give to be thirty-nine again.

Mike used to scoff at my fear of aging. "Fact of life, Bella," he used to say. Of course, when his stomach started hanging over his belt and he was forced to rein in the rich business lunches and start clocking a few miles on our basement treadmill, he changed his tune entirely. I couldn't help being secretly pleased. It was those moments of quiet triumph that were gentle reminders of the truth. My relationship with Mike sucked.

"She cares about you," I say. "Tanya, I mean."

"I should hope so. We've been friends for a long time."

"That's not what I mean. She sees you as more than a friend."

"Why do you say that?"

"I saw the way she looked at you. I'm a woman. I know that look. She has feelings for you."

"Possibly," he says. I raise an eyebrow at him and he sighs, cornered. "Okay, probably."

"So you've dated in the past…had a relationship…something...?"

"A very casual one. We're thrown together a lot." He waves his hand back at the room in which Kate and Tanya are painting. "I've known Garrett and Kate for twenty years. Tanya's part of the package."

"And how might that part of the package feel if it were set aside in favour of a new accessory?"

"I have no intention of treating you like an accessory, Bella."

"You know what I mean."

He shakes his head. "I'm not sure how she'd feel. It's not my problem. I would have told you about her eventually—we have a lifetime of things we need to tell each other. But since you've met her, all I can say is she has no claim on me. We're just friends."

"With benefits?" He levels his eyes at me and I drop my gaze to his chest for a moment before looking back up at him. "Tell me I'm not making a fool of myself, Edward."

"You're not. You're not making a fool of yourself. Not at all."

"I don't expect you to tell me you've been celibate for twenty-five years, but if you're in the middle of some—"

"I'm not in the middle of anything," he says, taking a few steps towards me and reaching for one of my hands, squeezing my fingers comfortingly. "There's nothing going on between me and Tanya. We haven't even broached the topic for months."

"Define months."

I watch his eyes float to the ceiling and I can tell he's counting in his head. "Four. Four months. In the spring, we talked and decided once and for all it would be best if we remained just friends."

"This was a mutual decision?"

"If you want to analyze it, I guess it was my choice. Look, I'm not a monk. I've had my share of relationships. Thing is, they never lasted. You'd probably say I was afraid to make a commitment, but it wasn't that. The women I've dated…they weren't…they weren't what I was looking for."

"What were you looking for?"

His eyes pierce mine, and then his expression softens as he catches a lock of my hair between his fingers.

"You, of course. I was looking for you, Bella."

Twenty-eight years dissolve in the blink of an eye. I don't know how it happens—I don't bother to examine the how and why of it. I end up in his arms, my face buried in his neck and my fingers slipping upwards into his hair. His cheek is pressed against my temple, and I'm afraid to move from the tight circle of his embrace, terrified to move my face because I know that his lips are right there and if I move, it'll be towards them.

I have to protect myself.

Which begs the question—why am I humming contentedly against his neck as one of his arms coils tightly around my waist and the other slides upwards to my shoulder, both keeping me tightly pressed against his body? Because, damn it he smells good and it feels so right being in his arms that I can't control my sigh of pleasure—that's why.

He pushes me away gently, his eyes dropping to my mouth. I know what that look means. I step back, wrapping my arms around myself protectively.

"I'm sorry," I say, shaking my head.

"Sorry?" He smiles, reaching out to rub my arms as if he's trying to warm me up. "What for? Unknowingly serving as the standard against which no other woman could hope to measure up?"

Oh God, I truly don't stand a chance.

"I was referring to impulsively launching myself at you, but I'm sorry about the other part too, I suppose."

Not that I understand it. Or _believe_ it for that matter. He's simply masterful at saying all the right things.

"Well, please don't ever apologize for being impulsive. No complaints here. As for the other thing, there's no point apologizing for something you have no control over. You couldn't help the fact that I wasn't able to forget you any more than I could help it." He walks around his desk and pulls a drawer open. "Maybe that's not entirely true," he says, reaching inside and withdrawing a wrinkled manila envelope. "I did a piss-poor job of putting memories of you to rest."

He tips the envelope and slips the contents onto his desk. I watch a faded, crumpled piece of note paper and a mangled mess of a cassette tape slide across his desk and I cringe. It's the mixed tape he'd made me for my sixteenth birthday. I took the liberty of destroying it, pulling the entire reel of tape out of the spools before sealing it in an envelope and sending it to him a few days after we broke up. He's kept it. All these years, he's kept it.

Maybe I shouldn't be so quick to dismiss his claim that he's found himself constantly comparing other women to me. Is it possible that he's not just saying what he thinks I need to hear?

I take a step closer and lean over the desk to peer at the paper. "Tell me that's not the note I sent you."

He picks up the paper and reads from it. Actually, he doesn't read from it. He recites it, looking straight into my eyes as he speaks.

"'_You introduced me to some great music, Edward. Too bad I'll never ever be able to listen to any of these bands ever again, thanks to you. And by the way, Alice Cooper is a freak. I didn't want to hurt your feelings by telling you that, but since you don't seem concerned about my feelings, why should I care about yours anymore? Have a nice life. Bella.'"_

He flattens his lips into a grim line.

"God, Edward. I was so pissed at you. I'm sorry."

He drops the letter on the desk and shakes his head. "Hey, from your perspective at the time, I deserved that, and more. There's honestly nothing to forgive. Although if you feel inclined to do something impulsive that might sweeten the pot—convince me you truly regret saying those words..."

He steps forward taking both of my hands in his again. He looks at me earnestly, but I can see the humour dancing behind his eyes.

"Don't push your luck," I say. All the same, I turn my hands in his, linking our fingers.

He looks down at our hands, frowning as he leans back against his desk.

"Look, yesterday you asked me if I was still afraid of commitment and responsibility, and I didn't really answer. I mean, I guess I sort of answered by telling you about Riley, but I couldn't help seeing that question as a bit of a challenge. Part of what I wanted to do today was show you that I'm not afraid of making commitments—of honouring my responsibilities."

"You've done a good job. I was kind of worried you might be a deadbeat." I shoot him a serious look, and his mouth drops open. "I'm kidding," I say, laughing and moving to perch beside him on the corner of the desk.

He huffs out a relieved breath, his hand on his heart. "Jesus, woman, you're killing me."

"Sorry, I couldn't resist." I shove his shoulder with mine. "Okay, well, let's recap the responsibility and commitment tour." I hold out my hand and count on my fingers as I speak. "You're a Big Brother, you have a mortgage, you run a successful business which requires a hefty time commitment, you're dedicated to maintaining a high level of fitness, and you've managed to cajole a bunch of teenagers into embracing the spirit of volunteerism."

He crosses his arms and frowns. "Is my responsibility and commitment tour backfiring? I sound a little stodgy."

"Not at all. There's nothing wrong with having people in your life who rely on you and stepping up to the plate when you have to. I guess I'm just wondering…"

"Wondering? Wondering what?"

What I'm wondering is if he's allowed responsibility to shoulder fun out of the equation entirely. Like Mike did. But I'd never dream of comparing him to Mike—at least not out loud.

"I guess I'm concerned that you don't leave time for yourself," I say, choosing my words carefully. "To just enjoy life. To let loose and have fun."

"Fun?" He nods and pushes himself off the desk, spinning around to look at his office. "Well, as unlikely as it may sound, all of this _is_ fun. And I love training for races and spending time with the kids. But I know what you mean."

He bites his lip and looks down at the decal on my T-shirt. Of course the decal runs right across my boobs. I wonder what he thinks I'm referring to when I say _fun_.

He does like racks…

"Okay, let's go," he says, quickly scooping his keys from the desk and swinging open the office door. "The responsibility and commitment part of the tour is over. Time to move on to part two."

"Part two? What's this part of the tour called?"

"The recklessly irresponsible tour," he says, grinning broadly, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

I grab my purse and quickly pull it over my shoulder. I know that cheeky grin. I haven't seen it yet today, but I remember it well.

And fondly.

* * *

**Thank you for reading. I'm so appreciative of your kind reviews and messages.  
**

**:)**

**R**


	18. A Happy Place

**Chapter 18 - A Happy Place**

* * *

As we drive, Edward holds my hand, glancing over at me and smiling mysteriously every few minutes. It doesn't take me long to realize he's retracing the route we took earlier. We're approaching Rosedale, his neighbourhood. Oh God, he's taking me back to his house! What have I done? Has he entirely misunderstood my innocent question? All I wanted to know was whether or not he's able to walk away from his responsibilities and have a good time once in a while. What if he really did think I was giving him some sort of sign—an indication that I was ready to hop in the sack?

I feel my hand starting to sweat against his palm. I try to quell my nerves with chitchat, quizzing him about the studio, how he fills his days, discovering among other things that while he has a full roster of music teachers on staff, he actually teaches guitar lessons to a few students, too—a handful of boys between the ages of eight and thirteen. "My kids" he calls them.

One thing is clear: Edward loves children. Children of all ages. He would've been a great dad, _was_ a great dad—to a child that wasn't his—until that little boy and Edward's paternal claim were taken away from him. He should've had kids of his own. It saddens me that he might never have that opportunity. I certainly can't give him children.

This realization makes my hand sweat even more, partly because I feel terrible that I can't give him children, and partly because how in the hell did I make that leap?—the one where I'm actually contemplating sex between us, sex that will never lead to procreation? We're a mere three hours into our day together, and already we're having sex in my imagination.

It's worth mentioning that it's excellent sex. And it's definitely very _fun._

Of course it is.

Because I'm awash in thoughts of our excellent very fun sex—which in my mind is completely imaginary, but in Edward's mind could be what he thinks we'll be doing any minute now—I don't even realize we've arrived at Edward's house until we're in his driveway and he's swinging his keychain around his index finger as he opens my door.

"Okay, out you get," he says.

As I climb out, I start formulating the beginnings of my backpedaling speech.

_I think you've misunderstood…_

_I didn't mean to suggest…_

_I have a feeling I've given you the wrong idea…_

All of these potential openers fizzle out before I have a chance to speak because as I'm turning to close my car door, Edward heaves his double-garage door open and ducks inside, pulling a large dust cover off of a sporty red car. He drapes the cover on a series of hooks on the back wall and turns to the vehicle with a wide flourish of his arms. All that's missing is the _ta-da_!

He's obviously hoping I'm impressed, and I'll admit, I am. Although the make and model of the car is completely unidentifiable to me, my knowledge of cars essentially non-existent, I have no doubt that the convertible in front of me is every classic car enthusiast's wet dream.

"Wanna go for a spin?" Edward says, beckoning me forward with one hand while he gently runs his other hand across the back of the car in a way that can only be described as _reverential_.

Despite the excellent and very fun sex currently taking place in my highly overwrought imagination (sex that should be reaching an epic crescendo any minute now), I'm relieved. Going for a drive in this car does sound like fun, and doesn't seem as if it will involve the type of physical intimacy that could potentially result in dire emotional upheavals.

"I would love to," I say, stepping closer so I can get a better look. "You'll have to pardon my ignorance. What kind of car is this?"

"It's a Triumph Spitfire," he tells me. "I came by it completely out of the blue. It used to belong to my sister-in-law's dad. He was a bit of a collector. When he passed away, he left three of his vehicles to her. She had no idea what to do with this one, so I bought it. I got a great deal, mainly because she was looking to unload it. My brother couldn't even fit behind the steering wheel. He's kind of massive."

"I remember," I say, laughing at memories of Emmett, the poster boy for Gold's Gym.

"Anyway, I guess I was doing her a favour. It's completely impractical," he says, grinning as he starts peeling back the convertible top.

"She's a beauty," I say, falling into that strange custom of referring to cars as females.

"Oh, I guess I should have asked first," Edward says, gesturing to the car. "Is driving with the top down okay with you?"

"Absolutely. It's a gorgeous day. Who knows how many of these we have left. We should take advantage."

"My sentiments exactly. Although you might want to…" He bobs his head at me. "Do you have an elastic or something? You might want to pull your hair back."

While I rest my purse on the back of the car and dig through it for a hair tie, Edward leans over the passenger side door and rifles through the glove compartment, producing a pair of sunglasses which he tosses on his seat. He watches me pull me ponytail my hair, twirl it into a messy bun and secure it with a clip, his eyes kind of glazing over as he stares at me.

"You okay?" I ask him.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's just…sometimes you do something, and it just brings back memories. I used to love watching you flip your hair forward and then put it up like that."

"You have a lot of the same mannerisms, too," I say. "It's a little odd, isn't it?"

"Odd, but great."

Odd but great. This is true. I have to admit, I love hearing about the things he remembers about me. It makes me feel a lot less pathetic for the way I indulged myself, picking apart every reminiscence I could scrabble together while looking through that box of souvenirs from the basement.

While my purse is open in front of me with my envelope full of mementos sitting right there, I wonder if now might be a good time to share with Edward the things I kept. I decide against it. It would be better if I waited until we weren't at his house. As the morning has revealed, sentimentality can lead to hugs. Hugs can very easily lead to kisses and the next thing you know…

Almost as if he can read my lurid thoughts, Edward takes a step back and glances down at his shirt before meeting my eyes and starting to undo his buttons. As he releases each button, all of a sudden, there he is in my mind's eye, standing at the end of that bed in the basement, peeling off his shirt just like he used to. We've barely finished round one in my fantasy, and we're somehow dressed again and starting on round two. But wait. He's wearing a T-shirt under his button down.

My Naked-Edward fantasy takes a brief hiatus.

"Oh my God," I say, staring at the decal that spans his chest. "We're wearing the same shirt."

"When you walked into the restaurant wearing that this morning, I just about fell over," he says, laughing and shaking his head. "There's no way I'm keeping this button down on while we go for a drive, but I think I should change my T-shirt, too, don't you?"

"Probably a good idea. Unless you want to want to spend the day looking like Frick and Frack."

"Not so much," he agrees, throwing the button-down over his arm. "I'll change and grab us each a bottle of water. Did you need to use the washroom or anything?" he says, jerking his thumb at the door to the house. "I was joking earlier about the mass chaos. I mean, it's not spotless, but you're welcome to come in and look around if you want."

"That's okay," I say, letting him off the hook. "A bottle of water would be good. I'll just wait out here and check in with Carlie."

Edward disappears through the door and I slip into the passenger seat of the car. One thing's for sure. It's compact. I was right. You'd have to be a contortionist to have any kind of successful sexual encounter in this car.

I tell myself this is a good thing.

My self is starting to seriously wish I'd shut the hell up.

X-X-X

I don't remember Edward's thighs being so toned. I mean, as a teenager, he was lean, but his thigh is unbelievably firm and solid under my hand like...like something unbelievably firm and solid. Under my hand.

Good grief. Having my hand on Edward's thigh while he sits there looking fit and gorgeous in his jeans and snug white T-shirt has utterly robbed me of my ability to think straight. I can't seem to compose an effective simile. A metaphor would be utterly out of the question.

We've gone from Edward holding my hand to me holding his thigh. I'm not holding his thigh in the strictest sense. My hand is just sort of resting there, about four inches above his knee. The location of my hand isn't a result of me being overly forward. Edward placed my hand there when he was forced to unlink his fingers from mine so he could shift gears as we made our way through stop and go traffic on the way to the highway. Now we're on the Gardiner Expressway, racing towards the QEW and Edward has one hand on the steering wheel and the other hand atop mine, trapping it there against his leg, his thigh muscles flexing occasionally in a way that makes my stomach quake.

I can't think of a good reason to move my hand. I can't think, period.

"What do you think?" Edward says, his voice rising to compete with the wind and the traffic.

What do I think? Is he psychic? Does he know I've lost the ability to think?

"This is great!" I reply, three entirely banal words about all I can manage to string together.

"Hold on tight," he tells me, patting my hand and then picking up speed, merging onto the QEW and immediately making his way into the fast lane, entirely without regard for the speed limit.

Men gape and women stare as we fly by. The men are ogling the car. The women are probably ogling Edward. I close my eyes, smiling as the wind whips against my face, remembering what my mother used to say whenever we'd see a man speed by in a convertible.

"I don't know why his mid-life crisis has to put everyone else's life in danger," she'd complain. "There never seems to be a police officer in the area when a maniac drives by. Why do you suppose that is, Phil?"

I can't bring myself to think of Edward as a maniac. There's nothing maniacal about him. However, he _is_ exceeding the speed limit, and wouldn't you know it, today has to be the day my mother is proven wrong.

"Aw, shit," Edward says, glancing in his rear view mirror and then grimacing at me as a siren sounds behind us.

As Edward carefully crosses back to the left-hand lane so that he can safely slow down and stop on the shoulder, I imagine the police officer leaning on the car door as he asks to see Edward's license. Now would probably be a good time to move my hand from his thigh. Besides, I need both hands to cover my face. For some reason, I can't stop laughing.

X-X-X

Our little tête à tête with the OPP results in a $140.00 fine.

"I'm so sorry about that," Edward says as he leans over to jam his ownership info back into the glove compartment, hesitating for a second before slamming it shut.

"Don't worry. Besides, what's a recklessly irresponsible tour without a little speeding infraction?"

"I suppose you're right," he agrees, grinning sheepishly.

"I'm the one who should be apologizing," I say. "I couldn't stop laughing. I'm surprised the officer didn't make you get out and take a breathalyzer or search the car for drugs."

"I was a little confused, I must admit."

"Not many dealings with the police," I confess. "I think the giggling was a nervous reaction."

"Never been stopped for speeding?"

"Nope."

"Busted for underage drinking?"

"Uh-uh."

"Had the cops come to your house to shut down a house party that was disturbing the neighbours?"

"No. Definitely not."

"Well, apparently I've spent the last twenty-five years on an absolute crime spree," he says, gradually picking up speed and pulling back into traffic as his laugh gets carried away by the wind.

I know he's kidding, but for some reason, his joke makes _me_ feel stodgy, every bit the stay-at-home-mom, a mom whose weekly highlight is a Wednesday lunch with friends from yoga class where I might splurge and indulge in something deep-fried before returning to the tedium of grocery shopping, planning a healthy dinner, cleaning bathrooms and chauffeuring Carlie to her various and sundry after school activities.

I'm just a mom. What the hell does he want with me?

"Do me a favour?" he says, distracting me from my self-flagellation by pointing at the glove compartment. "Grab the CD out of there and pop it in?"

In the glove compartment, underneath the ownership papers and a pair of leather driving gloves, I find the CD he's referring to. I briefly consider asking him to put on the gloves because, frankly, leather driving gloves would look sexy as hell on him, but I snap the door closed quickly and flip open the CD case before I'm tempted to follow through on this ridiculous request.

"What is it?" I ask, pushing the unmarked CD into the player.

"I'll give you a hint," he says. "I made the mix myself many years ago for someone's sweet sixteenth birthday."

"Seriously?" I say, sitting up a little higher, my eyes widening as I wait for the first song to start, which it does, about three seconds later, with the unmistakable opening notes of Led Zeppelin's _Kashmir_.

"Did you mean it when you said in that letter that you'd never be able to listen to these songs ever again?" he says, raising his voice above the music.

"I'm actually pretty sure I was full of shit. Can you imagine living your whole life not listening to Zeppelin?"

"Absolutely not." His expression of mock horror makes me laugh.

"Plus, it's excellent music to drive to," I point out.

"It's excellent music to do lots of things to," he says, smiling confidently at the road ahead.

He doesn't even attempt to hide the suggestive undertone in his voice. He didn't call the CD "Songs from a Basement in Rosedale" for nothing. I can't believe he remade the mix and burned it onto a CD. This time when he reaches for my hand and rests it on his thigh, I smile at him and give his leg a light squeeze. He grins back at me and winks.

That grin. That wink. They both tell me something very important. When Edward looks at me, he doesn't see a _mom_. He sees a _woman_.

X-X-X

The memories the CD stirs up are vivid. Vivid and incredibly raunchy. From time to time, Edward sings along, seeming unaware that he's doing so, and with each passing song, I feel my body temperature rising—a reaction partly due to the warmth of the sun beating down on us, but mostly due to the memories associated with these songs, more specifically, memories of Edward's glorious manual dexterity. It's been so long since I've been on the receiving end of glorious manual dexterity.

My own manual dexterity doesn't count. Self-administered manual dexterity rarely if ever falls into a category that one might term _glorious._

Also not glorious is the fact that we've driven so far west that the Burlington Skyway is up ahead and it appears as if we're going to cross it. I've always held a special hatred in my heart for the Burlington Skyway. It's a suspension bridge, and I swear it swings on windy days.

"Are you taking me to Niagara Falls?" I ask, resorting to casual chatter to try to stay calm. "Whenever we cross the skyway it's because we're going to Niagara Falls."

"While spending an afternoon with you checking out the wax museums up and down Clifton Hill does sound fun, no, we're not going to Niagara Falls. I have something a little more relaxing in mind. Hope you're not too disappointed."

I can hear the smile in his voice. I can't see his smile, because I have my eyes closed. "Relaxing sounds good," I say, taking a deep breath as we make the final approach to the bridge.

"Maybe the destination I have in mind wasn't such a good idea," Edward says. "You _are _still afraid of heights, aren't you?"

"Don't worry," I assure him. "I'll keep my eyes shut."

_All the better to fantasize about you…_

"We'll be across it before you know it," he assures me. "Listen to the music and go to a happy place in your mind," he says.

Little does he know, I'm in already in a happy place in my mind. I'm also pretty happy on the outside.

... ... ...

**Thank you for reading.** **Wherever you are, I hope you're enjoying the summer. **

**:)**

**R**


	19. Just Breathe

**Chapter 19 - Just Breathe**

* * *

When the CD ends, a long silence ensues. It's not an uncomfortable one, though Edward seems a million miles away. I wonder what he's thinking, but I dare not ask. That might make him ask me what _I'm_ thinking, and I definitely dare not tell. He doesn't need to know that I've been in my "happy place," where he's been treating me to a fabulous demonstration of his manual dexterity—on the hood of the car, no less—all thanks to the last song on the CD, Led Zeppelin's _Dazed and Confused_. My happy place has never been happier. Well, maybe it has, but not for many, many years.

I take a quick break from my happy place to check out the scenery. We've crossed the skyway and exited the highway, ending up on a quiet road running parallel to the lake. The breeze off the water is refreshing and much needed—my happy place was getting a little steamy.

I have to hand it to Edward, he's picked a lovely route for an afternoon drive (terror-inducing Burlington Skyway notwithstanding).

Scattered houses dot the lakefront, each one situated on at least an acre property. Gradually, the properties get smaller, the houses closer together and then we're in a subdivision and soon afterwards pulling into a gravel parking lot.

"Here we are," he says.

_Here_ is apparently a restaurant called The Bell.

"What's the plan?" I ask him.

His forehead puckers and he turns in his seat to face me. "You know the weird thing about going for a drive? You need a destination. I mean, I guess we could have gone in a random circle for a couple of hours, but there's something I've been thinking about doing for you since this morning, and the further west we drove, the more I started to think this might be the right spot to do it." The lines around his eyes wrinkle as he smiles. He has great smile lines.

Something he wants to do for me? I can think of several things I'd like him to do for me, but a restaurant hardly seems the right setting…

"Is that enough of an answer for now?" he asks me. "Will you let me surprise you with something? I know not everyone likes surprises."

Well, now I'm intrigued. "Hey, I love surprises. I'm all for it. Let's go."

"Excellent." We climb out, both of us taking a moment to stretch out our backs before crossing the parking lot hand in hand and entering the restaurant.

We stand by the door waiting to be seated. A quick scan of the decor tells me it's one of those English style pubs where they serve Guinness on tap and have menu items like Bangers and Mash and Toad in the Hole. Above the hostess stand, a sign tells us Monday's featured beer is Flying Squirrel.

_Interesting. _

There are a few small groups of patrons sitting at tables in the dining room, and a couple of guys drinking beer and watching a sporting event on a large screen TV in the bar area, but other than that, it's fairly quiet. Not surprising for a holiday Monday. Plus, we're arriving between meals. It's past lunch, but too early for dinner. Something does smell awfully good, though, and I suddenly realize I'm really hungry. It's been hours since breakfast.

Eventually, a burly man emerges from the swinging double doors at the back of the restaurant, and as soon as he sees us, he heads across the room toward us, all smiles. When he gets to the door, he flings his arms open wide and gives Edward a warm manly hug, involving a good deal of back clapping.

"Where have you been, lad?" he says, taking Edward's face between his meaty hands and patting his cheeks affectionately. He's Irish. From the sound of his accent you'd think he just stepped off the boat, but that can't be possible because Edward knows him and obviously hasn't seen him for a while.

"Yeah, it's been months, hasn't it?" Edward agrees. "Crazy summer, Liam. A couple of races, some renos at the studio—"

"—and the attentions of a lovely lady to boot," the man interrupts, turning his attention to me. "When you have the choice to look at this one instead, I don't blame you for avoiding my ugly mug."

Edward grins sheepishly, seeming embarrassed by his friend's presumptions. He introduces me to Liam and I'm treated to the heartiest handshake I've ever experienced.

"Listen, is Siobhan here?" Edward says as Liam leads us into the restaurant and waits for Edward to pick his preferred table.

"Where else would she be? She's in the kitchen, _supervising_, if you know what I mean." Liam leans over and whispers in my ear. "My wife. Bossyboots, she is."

I'm not sure what it is about this bushy-bearded Irishman, but he's instantly likeable.

"Bella, would you excuse me for a sec?" Edward says. "I just need to talk to Siobhan really quickly. I'll be right back?"

I wonder if Edward's desire to talk to Liam's wife has something to do with my surprise. I shoo him with one hand as I scoot my chair forward with the other. "Of course. Go ahead. I'll wait right here."

Edward and Liam disappear and I take the opportunity to check my phone for messages. Carlie's sent me another text complaining about how bored she is and claiming that her father is being "weird". I wonder if he's ignoring Carlie and focussing all of his attentions on his new lady love. Once again I remind her to enjoy her time with her dad. I warn her that my phone battery could die any minute and close my message by telling her I love her and miss her and that I'm looking forward to seeing her later.

As I'm putting away my phone and zipping up my purse, a woman with beautiful long auburn hair crosses the room with a music stand and a flute, depositing the stand in the corner of the room where a few instruments are arranged on a tiny platform. How cool is that? She's going to play the flute while we eat? I wonder if she's going to play alone or if perhaps she's part of a wind ensemble.

But no. That's not it at all because then Edward materializes on the other side of the room and strides purposefully across the restaurant to join her. And he's got an acoustic guitar in his hand.

Oh my God, what's he doing?

He settles himself on a stool in front of a microphone and the woman with the flute stands a few feet off to his side. They exchange a secret smile and then Edward taps the mic and clears his throat.

"Good afternoon, folks," he says. "Sorry to interrupt your afternoon drinks, but we've got a little impromptu performance for you...a preview of the regular Monday night open mic session, I suppose. Liam's kindly loaned me Siobhan for a few minutes and we're going to play a little Pearl Jam number called _Just Breathe_."

It's as if the title of the song is a silent command because I do indeed seem to have forgotten to take in air for a minute or two. I breathe in deeply as Edward's eyes hold mine across the room.

"This is for Bella," he says.

Now, how the hell am I supposed to function after that? I may never breathe again. When he begins to play, breathing is the last thing on my mind.

I wish I could simultaneously watch his fingers picking the strings and study his face as he concentrates. I have to settle for darting my eyes back and forth. Siobhan plays a few notes which lilt hauntingly above the melody and I get shivers in my knees. Then, Edward leans in to the microphone and starts to sing and I get another shiver, but this one runs from my toes straight through my spine and upwards to my neck where it lingers for the rest of the song, tickling at me as Edward sings about wanting and needing, about things said and not said. And about breathing.

I've heard this song countless times, possibly hundreds, having played it on a continuous loop for weeks after I bought the CD, but hearing Edward sing it makes the song new, entirely different, because he's not just singing it _for_ me. He's singing it _to_ me. His eyes are locked on my face now, his gaze so intense, I'm sure everyone in the place is staring at me, but I don't care. I don't have the energy to care. I'm putting all of my energy into watching him and trying to keep my emotions in check.

All too soon, the song is coming to a close, one final breathy flute note gently fading away with Edward's last word. The restaurant's patrons clap politely. I would clap as well if I could unclasp my hands, but they're resting on the table, stuck together, a gesture of supplication. I'm not sure what I'm praying for more fervently—a kiss from Edward, or the ability to hold back a seemingly imminent tearful outburst.

Edward deposits the guitar on a stand and after thanking Siobhan for her help, he steps off the platform, questioning me with his eyes as he weaves between the tables. I take a few cleansing breaths and clench my jaw against the need to bawl my eyes out because what Edward has just done is possibly the most romantic thing I've ever experienced in my life.

I try to stand up before he reaches me, but my brain doesn't send my knees the message quickly enough. When he gets to the table, he leans over and I tip my face up, expecting, no—more than expecting—_inviting_ a kiss. He cups the nape of my neck, smiles at me and slowly lowers his lips to my forehead, pressing a long, tender kiss there. I close my eyes and try to savour the preciousness of the kiss. It's a lovely kiss, but it's about five damn inches too high.

"Well, what did you think?" he asks, searching my eyes which are stinging with unshed tears. "Shit, I've embarrassed you haven't I? Everyone was watching you. They still are, actually." His eyes flick quickly around the room and then back to mine. "Bella?"

He frowns and I realize I'm gaping at him with my mouth open.

"Sorry, I guess I'm speechless."

"Good speechless or bad speechless?"

"Definitely good speechless. You're so talented. Your friend was great, too."

"To hell with my friend," he says, pulling a chair up to mine so that our knees are touching. "Tell me more about how great I was."

"You did Eddie Vedders proud."

"And you? Did I do you proud?"

"Of course you did. That's honestly the most thoughtful surprise I've ever had. I love that song. You singing that song to me…just…I'm speechless."

I want to say more, tell him how much his gesture has touched my heart, but then Liam is behind us, clapping Edward on the shoulder and laughing heartily, bringing a swift end to our sweet exchange.

"You soppy old swine," he says. "That was bloody hideous."

Edward laughs, too. "Sorry, Liam. Hope I haven't put everyone off their lunch."

"Nah, don't be silly. I'm just pulling your leg. You're not dashing off yet, are you? Will you stay for a bite? It's on the house."

Edward raises his eyebrows at me. "What do you think, Bella? Hungry?"

I nod vigorously. I'm starving. "Something to eat would be great."

"How about we head outside?" Edward says, pulling me to my feet and bobbing his head towards the exit for the patio.

"Good idea," Liam agrees. "You'd better get out quick, Edward, before everyone starts rushing the table, wanting your autograph."

X-X-X

Edward and I find a quiet corner table with a large umbrella to shield us from the sun.

"I'm really sorry if I embarrassed you in front of everyone," Edward says, waiting for me to hang my purse and wrap over the back of my chair before handing me a menu.

"You didn't embarrass me. I forgot there were other people in the room, to be honest."

"Me too."

He holds my gaze and I feel my cheeks warming. I rush to fill the silence. "So you've obviously been coming here for a long time? Liam and Siobhan seem lovely. You know them well?" I ask him, opening the menu and giving the lunch items a cursory glance.

"I don't get out this way as often as I'd like anymore, but yes, I used to come here a lot. Liam and Siobhan have owned the place for years. Oddly enough, this is where I met Garrett. When I was in my late twenties, I was taking a course at Mohawk College in Hamilton, and someone suggested drinks after class one Monday night. One of the guys lived in Stoney Creek and he raved about this place, so we came here. They do an open mic night on Mondays, and when we walked in, Garrett was on stage playing Zeppelin's _Bron Yr Aur_. We hit it off right away."

"Sounds like love at first sight."

"Pretty much," he agrees, grinning as he scans the menu.

As we order and eat, chatting and laughing all the while, it occurs to me that we've moved beyond companionable and comfortable to a new territory I'm at a loss to name. All I know is that after Edward's performance, the tension between us is positively crackling. It feels amazing. The only thing that would feel more amazing would be _breaking_ that tension.

Throughout the meal, we also work our way through the tough topics—all the tougher because he no longer seems to be the one on the hot seat. Now it's my turn.

"So tell me," Edward says, spinning the last of the onion rings thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger, "you went to university, but then you never ended up doing anything in particular with your degree. What happened?"

I slump back in my seat, twisting my napkin in my lap. The thought of telling Edward about my complete and utter lack of profession gives me instant indigestion. The heaping place of fish and chips I've just eaten is probably partly to blame. It's not fair to take a pass, though. Edward has been more than forthright with me. He deserves the same degree of honesty in return.

"I guess life happened," I say. "Mike and I got married two months after I graduated. He was already being head-hunted by mega corporations. Whatever he knew about computers was pretty impressive, I suppose. His work took him all over the world and he wanted me with him. We travelled a lot for about a year and a half. San Diego, Seattle, London, Tokyo, Dubai. Then after all the travelling, we settled down in Markham. Setting up the house became my full-time job for about six months. We entertained a lot after that, mostly courting all of his corporate clients. Then Carlie came along and he wanted me to stay home and look after her."

"That's what he wanted? For you to be a stay-at-home-mom?"

"Well, not exactly. I wanted it, too. My mother was always home when I was growing up. I wanted Carlie to have that as well."

"And now, she's grown up and finding her own way, and here you are…divorced and—"

"—feeling a little lost," I say, sparing him the trouble of providing a suitable adjective. "Everyone else is starting to count down to retirement, and I'm thinking of taking some courses and getting a job. It's like I'm living my life backward."

He gives his head a quick, decisive shake. "There is no backward and forward with life, Bella. There's just doing whatever works _now_. That's my opinion, anyway."

"Finding something that works now is something to aspire to, I guess."

"That's how I approach things," he says, smiling as he drops his rumpled napkin on his plate. "Finding what works now, living in the moment, whatever you want to call it."

After the waitress swings by to take our plates, she leaves us in peace to enjoy our drinks. Edward is nursing a beer and I'm working my way through my second bloody Caesar, doing my damnedest to enjoy this wonderful moment instead of obsessing over how best to let Edward know that this moment could be way more wonderful if we were to move beyond handholding and forehead kisses to something a little more…well…._more_.

Throughout the meal, he seems to have been entirely oblivious to the accidental (entirely on purpose) way my knee and foot kept tapping his, and he didn't appear to notice the way I was staring at his eyes and his lips as he spoke, my own eyelids heavy with the desire to kiss him.

Maybe I suck at flirting. Maybe he just thinks I'm clumsy and tired.

"Was I right about the food?" Edward says, watching as I absently swirl my glass.

"Delicious. Although I think you were right when you said the food was to die for. I could feel my arteries clapping shut with every mouthful. Was there anything we ate that wasn't fried?"

"There was a slice of lemon beside the fish," Edward points out. "That wasn't fried."

"You're right. How foolish of me."

"Hey, you wanted recklessly irresponsible," he teases. "That's hands down the most recklessly irresponsible meal I've had in months."

As soon as he says this, I'm struck by my own stupidity. What had I been thinking earlier?

"I think I should apologize," I say, stretching my hand across the table and seeking out his fingers. "I don't know how it happened, but it seems like I've made you feel as if you had to prove something—like our time together today was some sort of audition or test. It's ridiculous. You're a great guy—you're obviously a good person. People like you. No," I say shaking my head, "they _love _you. A teenaged boy got out of bed to spend time with you, friends give up their Labour Day to paint for you—even Siobhan just dropped whatever she was doing in the kitchen to play the damn flute so you could serenade me." I rub my temple with my free hand. "I don't know. I'm awful. I'm sorry about the whole recklessly irresponsible thing."

"You're not awful," he says, his eyes softening as his hand closes over mine. "The recklessly irresponsible thing was my idea, and frankly I gave up on it right about the time the po po shut me down." He drops his eyes and snorts. "I can't believe I just loosely quoted a stale top-twenty pop song."

"Me either. Your seventeen-year-old self would be rolling his eyes so hard at you right now."

"I'd deserve it," he says. His smile is gentle. "But then he'd see that I'm with you and he'd cut me some slack."

"Is that what you're doing for me, Edward? Cutting me some slack? If I made you feel like you had to jump through hoops today, you can tell me, honestly."

"I'm not jumping through hoops, Bella. What would be the point? I'm just being me. I work hard, I love my friends and family, and I try to do right by people and live my life the best way I can. That's it. That's all there is. It's a simple, uncomplicated life and it works for me."

"Uncomplicated is good. It's perfect, actually. I don't know why I have to make everything so difficult. Maybe I should take Eddie Vedder's advice and just _breathe_."

"It's damn good advice. Breathing is good. Sometimes that's all you need to do. Breathe and put one foot in front of the other."

I take a deep breath and smile across the table at him.

"See? Good, right?" he says.

"Very good. I'll keep working on it."

He smiles and gestures to my T-shirt. "Tell me about the T-shirt. Did you really go to the concert?"

"I did. Mike took me."

"His choice or yours?"

"He bought the tickets, but I'm the fan. He surprised me for our anniversary, but they were last minute tickets. We had lawn seats. Mike spent most of the night on his cellphone—emailing and texting. Business."

"Too bad. It was a great concert. We were in the eighth row. I'm glad you like Pearl Jam and you didn't just wear that to impress me." He pauses for a second, encircling my hand with both of his. "You don't need to do that. I'm not pretending, and I don't want you to pretend either. Not anymore."

He winks and I feel my face flush. "Did you know I was making stuff up as I was going along when we were teenagers?" I ask him.

"You were totally transparent, but it was so damn sweet how hard you tried. I couldn't fault you."

"Well, I promise, I really do love Pearl Jam. I definitely have a new favourite Pearl Jam song. _Edders_."

Edward's mouth puckers and his eyes flash playfully. "He _didn't._"

"He did. Apparently, _Edward _is a super dorky name and Jordie refuses to call you that?"

"That little shit. Can't keep his yapper shut."

"You can't be mad at him for babbling. If he hadn't babbled, I wouldn't have known you'd be at the Ex last night."

"I guess."

Edward shakes his head ruefully once more then drains his glass and starts rooting around in his pocket, producing a pack of Dentyne gum. Cinnamon-flavoured Dentyne gum. He offers me a piece.

"No thanks."

"You sure?"

"I've never…" I shake my head. "Not my favourite flavor. It's funny, though," I say, lifting my purse onto my lap and slipping my hand inside to pull the envelope free. He frowns as I dip my fingers into the envelope and hand him the Big Red cinnamon gum wrapper. "I kept this. You offered me a piece of gum the first day we met. I threw the gum away, but I kept the wrapper."

"Huh, that's an interesting souvenir," he says, staring curiously at the wrapper and then back at the envelope in my hands. "What else have you got in there?"

"Um, this?"

I hold up the torn off piece of cigarette pack. He laughs. "That's my old phone number."

"It sure is." I fish around in the envelope and hand him several ticket stubs to the Ex. "Then there's these."

He flips through them, reading off the dates. "August 20th, 1984. August 22nd, 1984. September 3rd, 1984. September 3rd. That was Labour Day."

"Yep."

"Wow."

His eyes flicker to the envelope again. I pull out the photograph and hand it to him.

"Jesus." He holds the picture close to his face, squinting. "Is that us?"

"That would be us."

"Fuck, I'm just a kid. And look at you." He glances at me quickly then darts his eyes back down to the Polaroid. "That's at the wedding, right? Bella, I was breaking up with you. Why the hell did you keep this?"

"Same reason I kept these, I guess." I tip a handful of dried rose petals onto the table. "Same reason you kept that mangled tape I sent you."

He reaches over and takes one of the petals between his fingers, rubbing it until it crumbles between his fingers. "The rose I gave you. I made you a promise," he says. "I didn't keep it."

"A promise?"

"I told you one day we'd be together. One day…"

He trails off and shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

"And here we are," I say, taking his hand in mine and smiling encouragingly. "Here and now."

"You're right. No, you're absolutely right. Here and now." He nods contemplatively, picking up the CNE tickets again. "Let's go back," he says, holding up the Labour Day ticket stub.

"Edward, we were there last night."

"I know, but we were both in shock and we didn't enjoy ourselves properly. It's closing day. Let's go back and listen to the echoes together. Let's go and have some fun before I have to take you home. What do you think? You in?"

Am I? Of course I am. I don't need to think. I'm so in. I gather together the souvenirs of the summer of 1984, slip them back in the envelope and jam it back in my purse. Standing up, I offer Edward my hand. "I'm in. Let's do it."

... ... ...

**Thank you for reading. You're all lovely and I hope you'll come back for more.**

**R**


	20. A Sentimental Fool

**Chapter 20 – A Sentimental Fool**

* * *

Our return trip to Toronto is torturously slow, and not just because Edward is staying within the posted speed limit. It's the end of a long weekend. People are migrating back to the city after a few days away, and we get stuck in several traffic jams which seem to worsen the closer we get to downtown.

Crawling along the Lakeshore toward the CNE grounds, Edward isn't able to hide his impatience. His exasperation isn't merely obvious, it's contagious. He can't keep his fingers still for long enough to hold my hand. We listen to a rock station on the radio and he taps a steady drum beat on the steering wheel as he drives. I start fidgeting, too. The day is wearing on, late afternoon giving way to evening. We don't have much time left together.

In other words, if he doesn't kiss me soon, I'll have to take matters (and maybe a couple of other things) into my own hands. I should have had another Bloody Caesar. Or three. Gutsiness has never been my default mode. Then again, Edward does seem to be able to bring out my inner cojones.

When we finally pull into the parking lot near the eastern gates of the grounds, he exhales a long slow breath and climbs out of the car, tossing the gum he's been gnawing at anxiously for the last twenty minutes into a nearby trash can before turning his attention to the car.

While he wrestles with the convertible's soft cover, pulling it tight and clipping it into place around the windshield, I stay out of the way, taking advantage of the opportunity to tug the clip out of my hair. I gently massage my scalp, doing my best not to stare at the way the muscles in Edward's back ripple with his movements. My efforts at subtlety aren't terribly successful. When he turns around, I'm almost positive he catches me staring at his ass.

If he's surprised, he doesn't show it. He simply grins and slips his arm around my shoulders. As we make our way towards the park entrance, he occasionally brushes my hair over my shoulder, dropping soft kisses on my forehead.

By God his forehead kisses are lovely, but they're still way too high and five inches has never been so significant a measure. I'm already sending out a quiet APB for my cojones. They have to be around here somewhere.

"So how long do we have?" Edward asks me, turning my wrist so he can look at my watch.

"We should try to be on the road by eight if I'm going to beat Carlie home. I'm sure traffic will be nuts for the next few hours."

"On the road by eight? Hmm. That doesn't give us much time."

I sneak a look at my phone, thinking I'll text Carlie to tell her not to worry if she gets home before me. No such luck. My phone is dead.

"Damn it," I mutter, tossing it back into my purse.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, my phone ran out of battery. Not surprising. I forgot to charge it last night."

"Are you worried about Carlie?" he says.

"No, I'm sure she's fine. I mean she's with her dad, right?"

"If I had my cell with me, I'd let you borrow it."

"You don't even have your phone with you?"

"Nope," he says, moving forward in the line to pay for our admissions to the park. "Why would I need my phone? You're the only person I want to talk to today, and you're right here."

I can't contain my smile as we push our way through the turnstiles at the entrance. This is what it feels like to be the absolute focus of someone's attention. It's a novelty. And it's pretty damn incredible.

"You want this?" he says, handing me my ticket stub with a cheeky smirk.

"Hell, yes. I'll add it to my collection." I take the ticket and slip it into a side pocket of my purse.

"You know where we're going first, right?" He points at the Sky Ride as the easternmost end comes into view. "We have to go on it right away. If we're leaving by eight, there's no time to waste."

This announcement stops me in my tracks. "Are you serious? We've crossed the Burlington Skyway twice in one day and now you want me to go on that? I thought this was supposed to be fun."

He rests his hands on his hips as he looks at me. "Bella, this afternoon, you told me you spent a couple of years flying all over the world. You can do that and you can't wrap your head around a dinky amusement park ride?"

"Ever heard of Ativan? Works wonders for long-haul flights."

"Wow, that bad, huh?"

"Actually, no," I laugh. "I was kidding, though I do tend to have a few generous glasses of wine before I fly." I tilt my head back, watching the gondolas sliding along the cable above us.

"We don't have to go on it," he says, squeezing my fingers comfortingly. "I don't want to stress you out. It's just that..." He pauses, seeming at a loss for words. "Bella, I've had a great time with you today. I hope you've had a good time too..."

"Of course I have. It's been a wonderful day."

"So what I mean is, God, I don't know, maybe I'm being a sentimental fool. I know we can't go back in time, but I guess I thought maybe we could _relive _a memory or two before I take you home."

His eyes flicker across my face and pause at my lips.

Wait...

Sentimental fool?

Relive a memory or two?

Might one of these memories be our first kiss? He's _staring_ at my lips now. Intently. Yes, that's exactly what he wants to do. I'm sure of it. He wants to go on the Sky Ride so we can recreate our first kiss. God, he is a sentimental fool, but the notion is so adorable, I can't fault him. And I'm certainly not about to thwart the long-awaited lip-lock.

"You know what?" I say, rolling my eyes at myself and trying to sound self-deprecating. "I'll be fine…it's fine, honestly. Let's go on it."

"Only if you're sure. I mean, the Sky Ride isn't nearly as high as the Alpine Way was, but I don't want you to freak out. That would be...well, counterproductive."

He smiles at me gently. He's giving me an out, but based on the way he's looking at me and what he's just said, I know I'm not misreading his cues, and I can tell he really wants to do this.

"Honestly, it's all good," I insist, psyching myself up as I take a few steps toward the nearest ticket booth, tugging at his hand. "Come on. I'm positive. I want to."

I really, really want to. _Really_. After all, it's six o'clock. He's right. There's no time to waste.

But what if we kiss and it's terrible? What if I've lost my whatever-it-was that made him want me all those years ago? What if he's lost _his_ whatever-it-was? What if, God forbid, we've lost our chemistry entirely? Maybe the deliciousness of our day together was all about the anticipation of the kiss and the kiss itself won't live up to expectations.

No. No, no, no. I won't psych myself out. Just because Mike had the libido of a two-by-four doesn't mean there's something wrong with _me._ And with Edward's sex appeal, there's no way a kiss from him would leave me cold. I absolutely mustn't sabotage this.

I try to maintain a casual detachment while I wait for Edward to buy a sheet of tickets, but once we're in line for the ride, my heart starts to thump and my stomach knots up. I concentrate on breathing calmly, but physiological reactions are inevitable, and when Edward slips his fingers through mine, the clamminess of my palm is a dead giveaway.

"Are you sure about this?" he says, looking down at our linked hands worriedly.

I try to give him a convincing nod. "Totally."

My nonchalance evaporates the minute we're ushered into place and the chair lift scoops us up and pulls us toward the sky. The seat squeaks and wobbles, seeming altogether not sturdy. I peer hesitantly over my shoulder.

"Oh God, this really doesn't feel safe."

"Don't look back there," Edward says.

I turn quickly, gripping the bar in front of us with both hands and leaning forward to peer over it.

"Well, you'll definitely make it worse by looking down," he tells me.

"You're right," I say, taking a long shaky breath. "This isn't so bad. It's really not that high," I coach myself. I'm perfectly safe. I need to relax. I'm wasting precious time. "You're right. Okay. I'm good."

"Stay right here with me," he says pulling me back by my shoulders and slipping his arm around me. "Like this, remember?"

_Remember._

I stare at his lips. He licks them. Yep. He wants to kiss me now. Here.

This is it. A kiss will change everything, dashing all of my carefully constructed defenses. For the first time since this morning, I hear Alice's voice, warning me to be careful, reminding me how badly Edward hurt me.

But that was a lifetime ago. Our circumstances are entirely different now.

As he gently strokes my cheek with his thumb, looking at me with earnest longing, I force myself to dismiss the memories of how much Edward hurt me all those years ago. The past is over and done with. Those bad memories are like one of those slivers of soap that you hang onto despite its uselessness. All I have to do is drop that soap and poke it through the drain with my toe and it'll be gone.

"Bella? Are you okay? Are you with me?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm great," I say. My voice is so breathy, I'm not even sure he's heard me. I nod decisively. "I'm here. I'm right here."

And here is right where I want to be. I give that sliver of soap the last nudge it needs. I forget about the past. I try to forget about the fact that we're forty feet up in the air and I focus on Edward's mouth, mesmerized by his tongue peeking out to moisten his lower lip.

He moves closer. I do, too. Then I close my eyes. His thumb slides across my cheek again and I wait. Two seconds, maybe three seconds pass before his lips brush mine ever so softly. My breath catches, but I don't move away. I lean into him.

More. I want more.

He gives me more, and right away I know why I've been unable to wipe Edward's kisses from my memory. At first it's just his hand sliding through my hair and his soft, full lips pressing against mine warmly, cautiously, but then—oh God—any defences I might have had crumble the instant his trembling lips part. His tongue finds mine and I'm awash in warm cinnamon deliciousness.

The chemistry is just as powerful as ever. I don't care that I'm zipping along a cable forty feet about the ground. I could be swinging by my toes from the top of the CN tower and as long as Edward was there kissing me, I'd be perfectly content.

A forest that's been without water for months on end will burst into flame at the hint of a spark, and that's exactly what happens to me. Edward's kisses ignite a fire that's lain dormant so long, I hardly recognize the feelings he's arousing—or the sounds I make as he kisses me. I can't bring myself to worry because he's making his own sounds, these quiet rumblings which travel from his throat straight to very center of my body. I feel myself sliding beneath a long forgotten undertow, one I'm powerless to fight against. So I don't fight. I surrender. I take a quick breath, thread my fingers through his hair and lose myself in his kisses.

At first, I'm oblivious to everything but Edward's lips and tongue, his hand curled around the nape of my neck, holding me close as he pours years and years of longing into his kisses. But then the wolf whistles start, the riders behind us cheering us on. Any second now, someone is going to holler at us to get a room. I feel Edward smiling against my lips and then he pulls away, but I don't get a chance to see his expression because he slides his lips down my cheekbone and then whispers in my ear.

"Hey, West-End," he says.

... ... ...

**And I die.**

**That, friends, is called reliving a memory. And in case you're wondering, I didn't name this chapter after Edward. I named it after myself. LOL.**

**Thanks for reading! I really did my best to answer reviews after the last update, but my inbox kind of exploded last weekend and I know I probably missed a bunch of people. I'm sorry. I was trying to write, and you know how it is...I figured you'd want me to focus on the update.**

**I'd like to thank a few people who have been recommending my story in various places around the web, so thank you to Spanglemaker9, Rochelle Allison, cejsmom and purelyamuse for your kind recommendations. To anyone else who's sent their friends this way, thanks so much. I hope you continue to enjoy the story.**

**R**

**xx**


	21. Second Chance

**Chapter 21 - Second Chance**

* * *

"Hi," I whisper.

I whisper this into Edward's neck because that's where I'm hiding. I'm hiding for a couple of reasons. First of all, I'm so ready for this ride to be over and burying my face in Edward's neck makes it impossible for me to look down, but I'm also swallowing back tears and I don't want him to see me cry. I thought he'd forgotten the nickname he'd given me all those years ago. He hasn't forgotten. He's been holding out on me. His impeccable timing is what's brought me to tears. If I wasn't already sitting down, his words might have actually brought me to my knees.

So I'm taking a moment to pull myself together, nestled against his neck, which is as wonderful a place as any to seek refuge.

"Do you know how long I've wanted to kiss you like that?" he says, rubbing his cheek against my hair.

"I've been waiting all afternoon," I tell him. "It seemed like an eternity."

"A few hours isn't an eternity. You know what an eternity is?" he says, easing my face out of the crook of his neck so he can look at me. "Twenty-eight years. _That's _an eternity."

He kisses me softly and then he smiles, throwing his arm around my shoulder. His exuberance makes the seat jiggle and I dart my eyes at the ground below us, wishing we were down there instead of up here.

"You sure are cute when you're terrified," he says.

"I'm not terrified."

"Wow, you're a terrible liar. I should feel awful for doing this to you, but I can't bring myself to regret it." His smile is glorious and wicked. "Close your eyes and put your head on my shoulder," he urges me. "I'll tell you when it's time to get off."

I bury my face in his neck again, giggling like a twelve-year old boy. "I can't believe you said that."

"You're a dirty girl."

"I can't help it. I think I need the comic relief."

At long last, the gondola starts to descend and Edward retrieves his arm, taking my hand tightly in his and wrapping his other hand around the bar, ready to push it forward as soon as possible. The second that bar is out of the way, I leap out of the seat, sighing with relief. Edward doesn't give me much recovery time. He tugs on my hand, weaving through the crowd, his long legs spurring us both along.

"Where are we going?" I call out, trailing along behind him.

"Nowhere in particular," he says, winking at me over his shoulder.

We end up behind the Fun House. Edward looks around quickly and then he backs me up against the wall, slips his hands around my waist and kisses me passionately. With his body pressed against mine, it takes every ounce of self-control I can muster not to wrap my legs around his waist so he's forced to pin me to the wall with his hips.

During a quick pause for air, Edward brings his hands to my face. He cradles my cheeks, his eyes taking a slow journey across my features as we both catch our breath. He kisses me softly, teasing at my tongue with his.

"God, your tongue tastes the same," he says. "It's killing me."

Killing him? _Killing him?_ Doesn't he realise that his kisses are liquefying my bones? Any minute now I'll be a puddle at his feet. But do I care? Absolutely not. I take a breath and pull him close, giving him plenty of opportunities to continue to enjoy the taste of my tongue while I continue to dissolve in his arms.

I'm almost forty-four years old, and I'm necking behind the Fun House.

And I'm sure this isn't why it's called the Fun House, but damn it I don't care, because this is the most fun I've had in decades.

X-X-X

"Is it just me or is it really hot?" Edward says, about ten minutes later, rubbing his thumb across my now quite swollen lower lip and then stepping back to drag his hand across his forehead.

_Too easy_.

But he's right, it is hot, and _he's_ hot and his kisses are especially hot which means I'm hot, too. Hot and bothered, my whole body tingling in places I'd forgotten existed. My brain can't keep up with the pleasure messages it's receiving. I expect smoke to start pouring out of my ears any second.

"We could head over to the Better Living Center or the Queen Elizabeth building to cool down," I suggest. "They're air-conditioned."

"Those buildings are for old codgers. I have a better idea." Edward takes my hand and leads me back to the midway. "Why don't we go on the Log Flume? It's just over there." He points to a spot in the distance and I follow the line of his arm, watching as an improvised log ascends a motorized conveyor belt before swooping down a track on the other side and kicking up giant waves at the bottom of the hill.

"We'll get drenched."

"Who cares?"

"Seriously?"

"We'll dry off in no time. And even if we don't, what does it matter? Or is that too high for you as well?"

I hear the challenge in his voice and I'm determined not to be a party pooper. I bite the inside of my cheek for a moment, giving the idea some thought then I turn to him decisively.

"Okay, I'll race you."

"You'll _race _me? Do you realize who you're speaking to?"

I don't answer. Instead, I say "Ready, set…." and then I start running before I say "go."

I hear Edward complaining behind me, something about that not being fair, followed by a warning. "Wait till I catch you…"

I keep running, but I'm not going very quickly. Sometimes it's fun to let a boy catch you.

X-X-X

I'm so wet. And I don't mean that in an erotic-novel-with-a-horny-wet-heroine kind of way. My jeans are drenched.

"My ass is soaked," I complain, trying to look over my shoulder and patting at my rear-end as we traipse down the exit ramp.

Edward laughs as he combs his wet hair back with his fingers. "I'd be happy to help you with that," he says, slipping his arm around my waist and giving my bum a quick rub.

"So that's why you wanted to go on the log ride! Another excuse to get fresh with me."

"Maybe," he laughs, pulling me close and kissing my cheek.

"I see how it is. Rule number one. When dating Edward Cullen, remember he _always_ has an ulterior motive."

"Dating, huh? Is that what we're doing now?"

I feel my face flush. I've misspoken. We stop at the bottom of the ramp and I look at him self-consciously.

"It was a figure of speech. I honestly don't know. I guess I was living in the moment."

"That's okay. I was just teasing."

We walk along quietly for a minute or two. Edward points to a nearby picnic area and we make our way to large maple, dropping into the grass under the shade of the tree. I fold up my wrap and use it as an improvised pillow.

"Twenty-eight years," he says, propping himself up on his elbow and surveying the midway. "It does seem like an eternity ago."

"Yes and no," I say. "Somehow it feels as if no time has passed. I feel comfortable with you, Edward. Easy. Just like old times."

"Things _were_ easy then. Everything was easy."

"I sure wasn't." I squint at the dancing leaves overhead, lost in my memories, recalling my cautiousness, my arbitrary rules about losing my virginity which, perhaps in retrospect, I still understand. I can't help but respect my fifteen-year-old self for setting some ground rules and actually following them.

"I loved that about you, believe it or not," Edward says. "You had self-control, moral certainty. I'd never met a girl who'd actually thought it was important to wait and not just have sex right away because that's what everyone else was doing. I liked being asked to slow down and I liked myself for respecting what you wanted. I think that's one of the things that made you special."

"I always felt special with you—like no one else in the world mattered."

"Really? That's nice."

"It's not just nice, it's powerful. I remember talking to my therapist about it when Mike and I split. I was telling her about how I always felt as if he'd rather be doing something else when we were together. It was hard for me to accept because I knew what it was like to feel special. Because of you."

Edward gives me a strange look. I suddenly realize how odd it must be, knowing you've been talked about and documented in a suburban office by some woman and her shrink.

"I've never mentioned you by name to my therapist, by the way. I mean, I've referred to you as my high school boyfriend, but never told her your name. All she knows is that we broke up and I was crushed. I don't want you to think I've been slandering you, painting you as some sort of villain."

"No, no, that's fine. I wasn't thinking about that…it's not a big deal. It's not as if I committed homicide or something."

"Homicide wasn't a part of your crime spree?"

"No. Thankfully," he chuckles. "Rehabilitated just in time, I guess."

"So what is it? You seem upset."

"Not at all. It's just…you're so worthy of being made to feel special." He leans down to kiss me. "I hate that we lost all those years, but I feel like I'm being given a second chance here." He frowns and squeezes my fingers tightly. "I'd love nothing more than to make you feel special again, Bella, if you'll let me."

He kisses me softly, brushing his thumbs under my eyes because the tears are flowing now, and I'm not even trying to hide them. My heart is too full. The tears have to find their way out.

"I don't want to rush you. We can take our time," he says. "But we can give this a try, right?"

I nod, words failing me.

"Yes?"

"Yes. Yes I want to try," I manage to say before he's kissing me again, lying on his back and pulling me close.

He holds me against his chest, sighing as I snuggle up to him. I really do want to give this a try. More than that, I want to succeed. I'm not sure I've ever wanted something this much in my life, a fact that becomes clearer the longer we lie there cuddling under that tree. Eventually, Edward shifts me onto my back and perches on his elbow smiling down at me. I curl my fingers around his bicep and give it a little squeeze.

"Are you ogling me?" he says, narrowing his eyes as he watches me worship his muscle. "I saw you checking out my ass earlier."

"I was not," I say, my defensiveness falling flat because I was so, and I know he caught me.

"You were. I think you were objectifying me. Please tell me you were objectifying me," he adds, grinning hopefully.

"Okay, okay," I admit. "I was totally objectifying you."

"Well, I'm deeply offended."

"Liar. You're not even remotely offended."

"You're right. I'm not. I suppose I should be honest. I've been objectifying you a bit today as well."

"A bit?"

"Yeah, okay, it's not a bit at all. It's a lot." His eyes dart down to my chest, where they linger for a moment. "God, I love Pearl Jam," he says, pretending a fascination with the decal on my shirt.

"You're still a pervert, huh?"

"Yep, perverted as ever. But I have a sweet side too."

"Yeah. I know, _Edders_." He closes his eyes and cringes. "Sorry. I just had to get one quick jab in," I say, stifling a laugh.

"It's such a silly name, but it doesn't seem silly when my nephew says it, you know?"

"I get it. It's special between the two of you."

"Like if somebody else called you West-End. I'd be kicking someone's ass."

"I didn't think you remembered that nickname. I was a little sad."

"Are you kidding me? I remember everything about you."

"Everything?"

"Everything," he says, smiling slyly.

I cover my cheeks with my hands. "And now I'm blushing."

"No need. All the memories are good."

"I know. I remember them, too."

"Seems like I've made you blush a few times today. Was it the cheesiest thing ever, me singing that song for you earlier?

"Cheesy? Are you kidding? Not at all. If it had been karaoke it might have been cheesy. Or if you'd chosen a Justin Bieber song."

"Good God, don't even."

"But it wasn't a Justin Bieber song, so, no. Absolutely not cheesy. Very romantic and pretty sexy too. I was kind of swooning, to be honest. Then you came back to the table and kissed me on the _forehead_."

"I wasn't sure what to do. The expression on your face confused me. Your cheeks were so red. You looked a little embarrassed. If you'd rejected me, I think I would've been crushed."

"Edward, I wasn't embarrassed. I was trying not to cry!"

"Oh. Well, I misread that one, didn't I? Maybe we need clearer body language."

"How's this?" I say, scrunching my eyes closed and puckering my lips, ready for a kiss. Nothing happens. I open one eye and he's frowning at me, feigning confusion. "Hello? Giving you a sign here." I stick my tongue out and wiggle it at him.

"Hell, now you're really confusing me. You do that and I'm definitely not thinking _kiss._"

I sit up, smacking his arm playfully as I move. "Jeez, you really are as perverted as ever."

"And I don't see that changing any time soon. Take me as I am," he says, moving in for a belated kiss.

_Rest assured, I have every intention of doing just that, _I think, as my hand slips through the wet curls at the nape of his neck.

_One day_.

X-X-X

I can't help tapping my fingers on my leg as I glance at my watch. It's already ten past nine and we're only just pulling off the highway. Carlie will be home by now and wondering where I am. I feel anxious being out of contact with her.

"Just like old times, right?" Edward says. "Do you think you'll be grounded?"

"Being grounded would be worth it. I don't often get to spend this much time with a super hot guy."

"A super hot guy, huh? I could get used to hearing that." His hand closes over mine. "Seriously, though, will Carlie be okay? I mean, I'd pick up my speed, but I don't think that's a good idea."

"Take your time. Carlie's perfectly capable of looking after herself. I feel badly about not being there when she gets home after a weekend away, but she'll cope. It's only fifteen minutes."

"Just think, last night you didn't even want me to know where you lived, and here you are letting me drive you home. Living on the edge a little, wouldn't you say?"

"A lot can change in one day."

"Ha, no kidding," he says, chuckling and shaking his head.

"I won't be inviting you in, though," I say, all seriousness now. "You understand, right?"

"You're a total slob, too, huh?"

"Not exactly. I have no excuse not to have a perfectly maintained home."

His fingers tighten around mine. "I was kidding."

"I know." I rub my thumb across the top of his hand. "But I hope you understand. I'm not quite ready—"

"Bella, I'm grateful for whatever small glimpses you can give me into your life. I get that you don't want me barging into your house and meeting your daughter after one day together."

"But you've shown me so much of yourself today. I don't want you to feel as if I'm being stingy, not sharing more with you."

"Please, don't worry. I meant it when I told you we can take things slowly. I understand why you'd want to keep things to yourself for a while. I don't think I'll be rushing home to call everyone I know and tell them about our day, either."

"Will you tell anyone that we've reconnected?"

"Well, now that Tanya and Katie have seen you for themselves, they'll have told Garrett, so I'm sure I'll talk to him about it, but I'm not going to tell my brother anything yet. He'll let it slip to my mother and all hell will break loose."

"That doesn't sound good."

"Oh, I don't mean it in a bad way. But I suspect she'd hop on a plane and race back here to start interfering in that charming motherly way she has. She's always been disappointed in my inability to settle down. The first mention of your name and her little ears would perk up." He bobs his head out the window as we approach an intersection. "Where to now?"

I direct him into the neighbourhood, and when we reach my street, I point out my house but tell him to pull up a few houses down from mine. The lights are all on. Carlie's definitely home.

"Don't want me to get a good look at your terrible gardening job?" Edward says, as he parks at the curb.

"No, I don't want my daughter to look out the window and catch me giving the hot guy I spent the day with a steamy goodnight kiss."

As I lean toward him, he smiles, cupping my cheek and peering at me intently.

"This was the best day I've had in…I don't even know how long," he says.

I nod my agreement. "Me too."

"I'd kill for Emmett's pickup truck right now. Remember that front bench seat?"

"Not likely to forget that."

Our goodnight kiss is as steamy as the cramped quarters of his car will allow. There's some tentative hand roaming and both of us do our fair share of moaning and sighing.

"I have to go," I say at last, untangling myself from his embrace.

He nods and leans his forehead against mine. "You'll call me tomorrow?"

"Absolutely."

"You have my number?"

"Safe and sound," I say, sitting up and patting my purse before reaching for the door handle.

Edward pulls me back. "One more kiss," he says, threading his fingers through my hair.

One more kiss turns into five more minutes of toe-curling bliss. Finally, I tear myself away, watching breathlessly as he takes my hand and presses a kiss into my palm. Have palms always been erogenous zones? Good lord.

"I really need to go," I say. "Carlie has school in the morning. I have to make sure she's organized."

He steals one final kiss and then moves back to his side of the car. "I could nap out here for a couple of hours and you could come out and visit me later," he suggests, his eyes twinkling.

"You're not making this easy." I laugh as I gather my things together, yet again.

"Okay, I'll behave," he says, wrapping his hands resolutely around the steering wheel as I push the car door open.

I lean down and pop my head back inside for a second. "Thanks again for a great day. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Sounds good."

He blows me an air kiss and winks at me, which makes slamming that car door and walking away nearly impossible. But I have to do it. Four houses away, my life awaits. I stand at the bottom of the driveway watching Edward pull away. He waves out the window. I wave back and then slowly make my way toward the house.

I let myself in, assuming I'll have a few minutes to collect myself before I holler up the stairs to let Carlie know I'm home. That's not what happens. Not even a little bit. She accosts me as soon as I walk through the door, throwing her arms around me and bursting into tears.

"Carlie? What's going on?" I toss my purse and sweater on the floor, trying to comfort her and see her face at the same time.

"Where've you been?" she sputters. "I've been calling and texting you for hours!"

"My phone died. I'm sorry, sweetie. We've been out of touch for hours at a time before. You don't usually seem to care."

"Yeah, well, this is the first time dad's had a brain tumor, so excuse me for being upset for not being able to find you."

"What?"

Carlie sobs against my shoulder and that's when I see my ex-husband standing in the family room doorway, watching helplessly as our daughter falls apart in my arms.

* * *

**Kudos to edlvr80, who somehow guessed what was going on with Mike after Chapter 12! I thought my foreshadowing was subtle, but maybe not...LOL.**

**Thanks for reading, and to those of you leaving reviews, thank you so much. I read (and reread) and appreciate each and every one. **

**See you next time.**

**R **


	22. Complicated

**Chapter 22 - Complicated**

* * *

All I want to do is crawl into bed and have a good cry, but Mike's downstairs waiting for me. We need to talk. I have to know what the hell we're dealing with. No cancer story I've ever heard that started with the words 'brain tumor' has ended well.

I find him in the kitchen. He's made us both a cup of peppermint tea. I slip wearily into the seat across from him at the kitchen table.

His eyes flicker to toward the ceiling. "She okay? I've never seen her cry so much."

"She's scared, Michael. Anyway, I think she's finally asleep." I sip my tea and rub my eyes, my eyelids feeling like they're lined with sandpaper. "She'll be a mess in the morning. Not the best timing to tell her. It's her first day of school tomorrow."

"I wasn't planning to tell her tonight. I came out here with her so I could tell you. I was sitting in the family room watching the news, waiting for you to get home, and Myra called. I thought Carlie was in her room, but I guess not. She overheard my conversation. She sensed something was up. I tried to wait, but when we couldn't find you…" He trails off and sighs deeply. "I know. Not the best case scenario."

They couldn't find me. They couldn't find me because I was with Edward. And I'd let my phone die. A treacherous tendril of guilt wraps around my heart. I breathe deeply, doing my best to banish that guilt. Mike has cancer, but I am not to blame. This is not my fault. I sense these words will be a mantra of a sort in the coming days and weeks.

"Maybe she should stay home tomorrow," Mike says.

"I suggested that. I told her she could sleep in and I'd take her to school when she woke up, if she wants. She's determined to get up at seven and go to school on the bus with Mallory. It might be best if she keeps up with her routine. Some sense of normalcy."

"Funny, that's what Myra said. She told me if we coddle Carlie too much, it'll just scare her more."

"Myra always did know best," I say, trying not to allow sarcasm to creep into my voice.

"She's been my rock."

Of course she has. Mike's capable and caring older sister, always eager to help. Over the years her efforts had so often appeared meddlesome to me. My judgments seem petty in retrospect.

"So tell me what's been happening. How did you know you weren't well? Were you getting headaches?"

"Not really. More dizzy spells than anything. Hypersensitivity to bright lights. The sun, computer screens—everything was painful to look at. I went to an optometrist, but my vision was fine. Then one day, about five weeks ago I was in a meeting and I got up to do a presentation, crashed into the table and fell over. Everything went black."

"That's scary."

"One of the guys in the meeting took me to emergency. As soon as I got there I was fine. I didn't know what to think—stroke, seizure—but none of the tests they ran showed anything. A couple of days later, the dizziness came back. I couldn't drive, couldn't work. I just wanted to sleep."

This explains Mike's uncharacteristic desire to take "vacation time." His use of the car service to pick Carlie up on Saturday morning and—though I hate myself for thinking it—his sudden interest in spending time with his daughter also make sense now.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me any of this."

"I didn't even know what I was dealing with until I got the results from the CT scan last week. Before that, there was nothing to tell. I honestly thought I was over-tired and stressed from work. I knew what your answer to that would have been."

"I suppose."

"Even now, I don't know how to navigate this with you, Bella. I don't know what to expect from you."

"Support? Encouragement? A shoulder? We were married for a long time, Mike. We have a child. I do care about what happens to you. I hope you believe that."

His eyes flash up to mine gratefully.

"So what was your girlfriend's reaction?" I say. "It's Jessica, right?"

"Jessica." He laughs bitterly. "She didn't stick around. Cancer's not very sexy, apparently."

"Shit. I'm sorry to hear that. That's a rotten thing for her to do."

"It's fine. I didn't expect much from her."

He presses his fingertips against his eyelids. As scary as this is for Carlie and me, it must be terrifying for him. He's always planned so carefully for the future, always been accustomed to being in control of his life, and now, everything he thought he had going for him has been wrenched away, his future nebulous.

"So what's next?" I ask him.

"Surgery, then radiation and possibly chemo."

"Surgery? That's a good sign, isn't it? So many brain tumors are inoperable."

"I guess it depends on the location of the tumor."

"And where's yours?"

He slides his fingers back and forth above his right ear. "Around here somewhere."

With his hand against his ear like that, all I can see is Mike on his cell phone. Years and years of cell phone use. Could that be the cause of his disease? I don't dare put the idea forward. He'll interpret it as an accusation. The last thing he needs right now is an _I-told-you-so. _

"So can they get the whole thing out surgically?"

"They won't know until they get in there and see what they're dealing with. My prognosis is still iffy. The surgery itself is risky as hell. If things don't work out on that operating table…"

He stares at something over my shoulder and the unspoken words fill the space between us.

Death. We are sitting at the kitchen table where we've sat so many nights to talk about everything from retirement investments to business trips to the reasons why I was always the one initiating sex. And now we're calmly sitting here discussing his potential death.

"You have to stay positive, Mike."

"I'm trying. We have to face reality, though. We need to be prepared. I need to know _you're_ prepared. For Carlie," he adds. "How's the money you got from your folks? Still holding up okay?"

He's referring to the lump sum my parents gave me when they sold their house to move to Florida, my mother a firm believer in me having my inheritance now, while she's alive to watch me enjoy it. It was a generous amount, but it's being chipped away by the monthly bills. It won't last forever. Thank goodness the mortgage is paid off.

"We're doing okay. I'll need to get a job eventually, but we'll be fine in the short term. What about you? You can't work. This process is going to cost a lot of money."

He assures me that money is the least of his worries and proceeds to boggle my brain with information about his stocks and investments, his disability and life insurance policies and the details of his will. It's too much. I cover my face with my hands and shake my head.

"I can't do this right now. I'm too exhausted."

"I know it's overwhelming. I've had time to process everything and this is coming at you totally out of left field, but we need to talk about it. The surgery is next Friday."

"Next Friday? That soon?"

"If I had my way, I'd be in there tomorrow having the damn thing cut out. My point is, there isn't a lot of time for us to talk about everything. Carlie will be taken care of. You, as well, Bella. I'd never leave you high and dry. I told you all that money I made would come in handy one day."

Of all the things he's said, it's this that makes me cry. I've spent so much time over the past few months speaking and thinking badly about him, and now this. I try to pull myself together quickly, blowing my nose and apologizing for losing my cool.

"You don't have to apologize. It's a hell of a shock. It'll take a while for it all to sink in."

I nod, sniffing and huffing out a quick breath. "Can we sort through all this tomorrow? I'm too tired to think straight. I didn't sleep well last night."

"Plus you've been out all day. You must be bagged."

I look at him questioningly and he points at the coffee pot and half-full mug at the side of the sink. Of course he knows I've been out all day. I'd never leave an unwashed dish by the side of the sink all day if I'd been home.

"You're right. It's been a long day."

An incredible day, but one which now—in the face of this overwhelmingly grim reality—almost seems like a dream. I close my eyes for a moment, seeing Edward's face and the way the green of his eyes seems to darken the longer he stares at me, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips as his eyes move around my face.

I have to force myself back to the present. Mike's gazing at the table in front of him, lost in his own thoughts.

"One thing's for sure," I say. "You can't go through this on your own. It's too much."

He nods. "Myra's coming down late next week from Kingston. She'll stay for a bit after the surgery. That's assuming I, uh, you know…"

He doesn't finish the sentence. I'm able to fill in the blank, but I won't allow myself to ponder that possibility.

"I'm glad Myra's going to be there for you. We'll do what we can as well, of course."

He gives me a watery smile and then takes a last sip of his tea before pushing the mug away and looking at his watch.

"Look, why don't you stay here tonight?" I offer. "It doesn't seem right for you to go home to an empty house. Plus, it's late and it'll be nice for Carlie to see you in the morning before she goes off to school. Once she's left, we can talk some more. Sort things out."

He blinks at me hopefully.

"You go ahead and reschedule the car service and I'll check to make sure the bed in the guest room is made," I say, reaching out to squeeze his hand.

I hope these last words make my intentions clear. I'm prepared to be supportive, but I still consider myself his _ex_-wife.

X-X-X

There isn't time to mope the next morning, the back-to-school-routine kicking our asses into high gear. Carlie refuses breakfast while I insist she eat something, plying her with granola bars and fruit, the height of hypocrisy, since I can barely choke back a piece of plain toast with my coffee. She rolls her eyes when I tell her to pay attention in class and remind her to fill in her homework agenda diligently. I ponder the wisdom of the outfit she's chosen given the school's dress code. I check the length of her shorts and the width of the straps on her tank top while she swats my meddling hands away from her shoulders.

Rumpled and bleary-eyed, Mike hovers around the periphery of our exchanges, looking a little dazed and a lot confused, especially when Carlie makes a special point of kissing him on the cheek before rushing out the door. I follow her down the driveway, not something I'd generally do, but I'm feeling more protective than usual, and I want a few quiet words with her before she leaves.

"I wanted to make sure we're clear," I say, my eyes flickering back at the house. "Your dad slept in the guest room."

"I know. It's no biggie. I have to go, Mom," she says, trying to pull her fingers free of my grasp as I clutch at her. "Mallory's meeting me at the bus stop."

"I just need you to know I'm going to do my best to be there for your dad, but I don't want you to be confused if—"

"I'm not confused. Just don't make him feel like shit, okay? Can I go now?"

I breathe deeply and let go of her hand. "I know you're angry, Car, but please don't turn it on me."

"I'm not," she huffs. "All I'm saying is be nice to Dad, okay? No arguing. I have to go."

"Okay. I love you. Have a good day!" I call out after her.

Have a good day? This may well be one of the most preposterous things I've ever said.

X-X-X

Mike stays until eleven, and by the time he's left, it's fair to say my head is spinning. He leaves me with a list of names and phone numbers as long as my arm. Insurance brokers, financial advisors, legal counsel, doctors, oncologists...

When did life become so complicated? Of course, cancer complicates everything, and I feel another pang of sadness for Carlie. It's one thing for a kid to suffer through a divorce, another thing entirely to have a father wrenched from your life for good. I would know. It happened to me.

With Mike on his way home, I'm finally able to attend to my own issues. There are four messages waiting for me on the answering machine, the first one an automated message from Carlie's school reminding parents of Thursday's curriculum night, the last three from Alice, each one begging me to call her.

I start multi-tasking, loading the dishwasher while I call Carlie's school to speak to the head guidance counsellor. I ask her if she'll keep an eye on Carlie and have a quiet word with each of her teachers so they'll know her life's just blown up in her face.

Next, I put in a call to my therapist's office, asking if I might be able to swing by for a last minute appointment. I've had enough turmoil over the last year to know better than to try to deal with emotional upheavals alone. The receptionist tells me she'll call me back. Ten minutes later, I've got a load of laundry running and I'm in the midst of folding tea towels at the kitchen counter when the receptionist phones to let me know I can come in at three o'clock. Perfect.

I'm staring at the phone in my hand, contemplating a call to Alice, not sure if I'll even tell her about the day I spent with Edward when it rings, scaring the hell out of me. I half expect it to be Alice, her sixth sense kicking in and telling her I'm thinking about her, but I don't recognize the number on the display.

"Hello?"

"Bella? Hi, it's me, Myra."

"Myra! Hi, wow, I wasn't expecting to hear from you. How are you?"

I settle into a seat at the kitchen table. Talking to Mike's sister demands many things, one of which is my full attention. I can't allow myself to be distracted when talking to her. She once suckered me into hosting a Christmas dinner even though I had a sprained wrist, all because I was dusting with my left hand while talking to her on the phone. So I sit. And I concentrate.

"I just heard from Michael," she says. "He let me know he'd told you everything. I thought maybe we should talk about our strategy."

Strategy? From her tone, she could very well be discussing a game of euchre. I haven't talked to the woman in over a year and she's skipped straight from pleasantries to business without batting an eyelash. I don't have a chance to reply before she's barrelling along, providing me the details of her so-called strategy.

"I'll head in to Toronto next week," she tells me. "I obviously want to be there for the surgery, and afterwards as well. If things go well and Michael starts radiation and chemo, I'll stay with him from Monday to Friday and go with him to his treatments, I can't stay through the weekends, though. That wouldn't be fair to Don and the kids."

"No, of course not—"

"So I guess I'm wondering whether you'd be able to step up and watch out for him on weekends."

_Step up and watch out for him. _

I don't fully understand what she's requesting, but I know I don't like the way she's framed her question. A failure to "step up" implies a shirking of responsibility.

"What exactly do you think I should do?"

"Well, isn't it obvious? He's going to need people to help him. He'll be exhausted, he'll feel ill. He'll most likely have hopeless moments and want to give up. I'd hate for him to be alone when those times come. He'll need his daughter's love and support. The last thing he should be is isolated. It would be great if he could stay with you on weekends."

"Myra, we've been divorced for ten months. I don't know if that's a good idea."

"He stayed there last night."

She speaks with a knowing tone, a hint of defiance under the surface. I can't help wondering what Mike told her.

"We were emotional wrecks last night. It was late. We still had so much to talk about. It seemed like a good idea. He slept in the guest room."

I have no idea why I sound so defensive. She truly brings out the worst in me.

"I'm not saying you need to renew your marriage vows, Bella," she says. "Just be kind to him. Make him feel valued. If you did a little research, you'd know how important a positive attitude and hope are when you're battling a serious illness. Please give it some thought. It's just a few months of your life, but it could be life-changing for Michael."

I bristle at her words. She's making me feel not just ignorant and ill-informed, but selfish and ungenerous. I want to help Mike, of course I do, but I don't want to be railroaded.

"Myra, I think I need—"

The doorbell rings, interrupting my response. Normally I ignore my doorbell when it rings in the middle of the day. I don't take kindly to people trying to sell me things on my own doorstep. Right now, though, I'd happily welcome a lawn care salesman, a duct cleaning company and an entire congregation of Jehovah's Witnesses onto my porch. I'd probably invite them in for coffee and Bundt cake.

"Myra, there's someone at the door," I say, already crossing the kitchen. "I'll think about what you've said. We'll figure something out."

"Call me? We should talk about what you decide."

"For sure," I agree, swinging my front door open, happy to find there's not a man with a clipboard standing on my porch, though not sure what to make of the fact that it's Alice who's standing there, looking like her dog just got run over by a car. "Look, I have to go. My friend Alice is here. I'll talk to you soon," I say, hanging up before she can reply.

Alice ducks past me and tosses her purse on the couch while I close the door. "You didn't call me back," she says, her hands on her hips as she scans my face.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" I gesture to her scrubs. She's wearing a hot pink number today. As a receptionist in a pediatrician's office, she gets away with all sorts of outlandish patterns and colours.

"I'm on my lunch. I don't have long, but since you won't return my calls or texts and your cell is going directly to voice mail, I didn't know what else to do."

"Oh yeah," I say, looking around the room absently for my own purse. My phone is still in there, dead as a doornail. "I should charge my phone."

"Bella, what the hell is going on?"

I sigh and bob my head towards the kitchen. "Want a coffee?"

She follows me through to the kitchen, but she doesn't sit. Instead, she's at my side, stilling my hands as I reach for the coffee pot.

"You look awful," she says, peering at my eyes.

"Couple of rough nights. I'm tired."

"Is that all it is? You're just tired? Because Audrey saw something on Carlie's Twitter last night, and I'm freaking the hell out. And then you wouldn't answer my calls, like you're afraid to tell me something…" She trails off, her eyes still darting anxiously around my face.

"What? What did she see?"

"It was around eight-thirty, I guess. Carlie wrote '_Cancer can die in a fucking fire_.' Please tell me that's just some random rant at the universe, Bella, because if you're sick, so help me—"

"Alice_, I'm fine_," I say, squeezing her hands. "I'm fine, honestly. It's not me. It's Mike."

"Oh, shit." Her hands leave mine and fly to her face. "Is it cancer?" she says, wincing as she waits for my reply.

"Brain tumor."

"Oh, double shit. Fuck."

"I'd say that sums it up."

She finally accepts a cup of coffee which she drinks standing beside me, both of us leaning against the counter as I get her up to speed on Mike's condition, pausing to answer her questions along the way. She rubs my back as I talk and I'm heartened by her compassion. This is the Alice I remember—the complete opposite of the joy-crushing Alice of a few days ago.

"So you turned off the phone and went into crisis mode, I guess?" Alice says. "That's why you didn't get my calls?"

"Not exactly," I say, nudging a toast crumb with my toe, adding _sweep the kitchen floor_ to my mental list of things to do. "I didn't get home until nine-thirty. I was out all day. With Edward."

Alice's eyes widen. "You really spent the whole day with him?"

"I know you thought it was a bad idea. Me going out with him, I mean."

"I didn't say that." She raises an eyebrow at me. "Did I?"

"Are you kidding me? You were such a downer on the phone the other night."

"Was I that miserable?"

"Totally. Major buzz kill," I say, using one of the terms Carlie hauls out when I'm cramping her style.

"I was just worried about you. I don't want you to get hurt, but I guess it's none of my business. You're not an idiot. You know how to look after yourself. Wow," she says, crossing to the sink and rinsing her mug. "Sucks to be my friend, huh? I'm sorry I was so heinous. Now you've got this crap with Mike to deal with. Jesus, Bella."

"You were being protective. I get it. And, hey, you're here now. Granted, you only rushed over here because you thought I was dying…" I trail off. "God, that's not even a little bit funny."

"Not really," Alice says, patting my arm. "Look, I wish I had time to stay and talk, but I have to get back to the clinic."

I follow her to the door. "Well, thanks for swinging by."

"Are you kidding? I was useless at work. I knew the day would be a wash if I didn't talk to you. So you and Edward spent _all day_ together?" she asks, as she reaches for her purse.

"All day."

"He's a good guy?"

"Awesome. I'll fill you in when we have time to talk."

"Any action?"

I remember what she said on the phone the other night—her snide remark about going away with Edward for a dirty weekend.

"A little," I say cautiously. "We held hands, kissed a bit."

She looks at me from under her eyebrows and there she is, my Alice, lurking devilishly under the surface. "What kind of kissing?" she asks.

My skin warms from the memory of Edward pinning me against wood slats of the Fun House. I really shouldn't let myself think about those kisses. I barely have the strength to stay upright as it is, what with the weight of Mike's illness, and Carlie's anger, and Myra's expectations drilling me into the ground. Remembering the feel of those desperately passionate kisses is the last thing my knees can handle.

"Like, slammed up against a wall type kissing," I say, coaxing my knees to remain locked.

"Seriously? _Slammed up against a wall?_ Oh, God," she moans. "It's been way too long since I've been slammed up against a wall. Lots of tongue?"

"Oh hell, yeah."

"Fuck," she sighs.

"Not yet, but I think it's definitely in the cards."

"Shit, shit shit," she says, her shoulders deflating. "That sounds so hot. I wish I didn't have to go back to work. I want to hear more."

"Sorry," I say, spinning her around and gently pushing her to the door. "Back to the grindstone for you."

I open the door and follow her out onto the porch where we both stop as a man walks up the driveway toward us with a long white box in his hands. There's a Freshland Flowers van parked in front of the house.

"Bella Newton?" the man says, glancing at the box and back up at us as he reaches the porch steps.

"Yes, that's me."

"Here you go, ma'am. This is for you."

I take the box and thank him. Alice nudges me into action as the man retraces his steps down the driveway and clambers into the van. "Well hurry up," she says, gesturing for me to open the box.

I move to one of the porch chairs, slipping the lid off the box as I sit. Inside, a single white rose with delicately curling pink-tipped petals is nestled among some greenery, a card resting on the top.

_One day was not even close to enough. _That's all it says.

"That's got to be from Edward, right?" Alice says, bending down to get a good look at the rose.

I nod, confirming her guess.

"That's really sweet, Bella."

I nod again. It is sweet. Sweet and thoughtful and romantic and lovely and a thousand other words I wish had the power to cancel out the one word that's single-handedly complicating everything.

The C-word.

Alice leans over to hug me, her arms lingering longer than usual around my shoulders as she whispers a promise to call me after work. I watch her dash down the driveway toward her car, tears of relief stinging my eyes. I thought I'd lost the supportive and sympathetic Alice I've always known. She wasn't lost—just temporarily misplaced. She hangs out of her window and calls out, "Charge your phone!" waving madly as she drives off. I add _charge cell phone_ to my mental list of things to do.

_Call Edward_ is one of the items on that list. As I look at the flower on my lap, everything else on the list becomes indistinct, little more than a blur, until _CALL EDWARD!_ is all I can see.

How on earth will I explain everything that's happened since we parted last night? I lean back on the porch chair to gather my thoughts. I gently rub one of the rose's petals, closing my eyes as the breeze tickles my face. The simple pleasure of the moment taunts me. I silently curse cancer for its power to ruin everything.

Carlie is right. Cancer can die in a fucking fire.

... ... ...

**Thank you for coming back. I know things have taken an unfortunate turn, but such is life, right? And if the C-word has touched your life, I'm sure you agree: cancer can most definitely DIAF.**

**A big thank you to the ladies at TLS for spotlighting "One Day" and sending so many lovely readers my way. And a huge thanks to Jaime Arkin for making me not one, but TWO gorgeous banners which beautifully capture the tone of the story. So well done. Check out my profile for the links.**

**As always, I appreciate your feedback and support. Reading your reviews helped motivate me this week when I was writing this not so fluffy chapter. And to answer a question that's cropped up a few times, I don't have a "posting schedule." I can't put that kind of pressure on myself. I won't hold chapters hostage, though. Once I feel as if a chapter is ready, that's when I'll post it.**

**Thanks again for reading!**

**R**

**xo**


	23. Promise

**Chapter 23 - Promise**

**Edward**

* * *

"Well, someone got lucky last night."

I look up from my desk to see Garrett standing in my office doorway, his arms crossed as he watches me.

"Hey, Gar. How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to figure out you're whistling 'Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.' You haven't looked this giddy since you bagged that 12-string on EBay for fifty bucks. Exactly how lucky did you get?"

"You've been talking to Kate."

"We've been known to chat from time to time. Of course, if we restricted our activities to chatting, we wouldn't be stockpiling newborn diapers and I wouldn't have been walking around some stranger's basement with a fake pregnancy belly strapped to my gut last night," he says, smirking as he flops into the seat on the other side of the desk.

"Lamaze?"

"Good times, my friend." He leans forward, reaching for my stress ball and giving it a few meditative squeezes. "So it's true what Kate told me about the elusive Bella? She's not a white rabbit after all?"

"All true."

"Shit, man. That's wild. I can't believe you finally found her after all these years."

"She found me, actually. LinkedIn."

"For real? Huh. That's even better. So what's the deal?"

"The deal?"

"Yeah. I mean you brought her here, right? Then what happened?" He grabs the stapler off my desk and holds it up to his mouth, singing, "Reunited and it feels so good, reunited cause it's understood—"

"Jesus, shut up," I laugh, snatching the stapler out of his hand and tossing it in my top drawer. "I thought you were my friend."

"If I wasn't your friend would I have missed the last half of 'How it's Made' so I could get over here to relieve your sorry ass a half hour early? What's going on, anyway? Katie said you had an emergency. I hope that's not code for I gotta go bang a white rabbit, 'cause I was just about to find out how they get the soft gooey center inside a chocolate."

"This has nothing to do with Bella," I say, ignoring his blithering about chocolates and rabbits. "Rose needs me to pick up Jordie from school, that's all. Thanks for coming in. I appreciate it. I'm sure Rose does, too."

"Yeah, no problem," he says, waving off my thanks.

"This'll be you soon, you know that, right? Dropping everything to look after the squirt or having to call in favours to keep all the balls in the air. Damn kids."

He smiles at me and shakes his head. "Honestly? I can't wait."

"Yeah. That's cool." It_ is_ cool, though it's taking every ounce of imagination I can scrape together to picture him changing a newborn's diaper. "Look, when you see Jordie this week, don't say anything about Bella, okay? He'll tell Emmett and Rose and I don't want them to know yet. I need some time, you know?"

"Sure thing. It's your call. And for future reference," he says, leaning across the desk conspiratorially. "I'd help you out if you wanted to split to catch some afternoon delight, too."

"I'll keep that in mind. For future reference. It's not like that, though."

"Not yet," Garrett says, nodding knowingly.

"Whatever. Look, was Tanya there when Kate told you about Bella?"

"Yeah, she was there."

"How'd she seem?"

"You mean did she throw herself on the floor wailing and tearing her hair out because you've found a new pot of honey to dip your spoon into?"

"That's a colourful way to put it. But basically, yes."

"She didn't seem thrilled, but she'll survive. You guys have been chill for a couple of months now, right?"

Truth be told, things have been cool between us for more than a couple of months, but we've been down this road before, dating for a year, only to break up for six months before hooking up again. I've been cautiously optimistic that this time she's accepted that things are over, but Bella's quick read of Tanya's "feelings" the day before me threw me for a loop. How in the hell was she able to sense that Tanya has a thing for me after spending a mere three minutes in the woman's company? Clearly, I've been deluding myself. And women have a scary fucking sixth sense.

"No, you're right. We're chill," I tell Garrett, gathering up my papers. "I don't want to hurt her, that's all."

"Ah, relax. You're not that great. She'll survive."

"I guess you're right," I say, not taking his jab at my mediocrity personally. It's par for the course with Garrett.

I turn off my computer, taking a quick look at my phone, though I know for a fact it hasn't made a peep in the time Garrett and I have been talking. I've never been all that attached to my cellphone, but since waking up this morning, I've been checking it neurotically for some kind of message from Bella. I thought I'd have heard from her as soon as the flower arrived. I'd scheduled the delivery for noon, but now here it is, after two o'clock and not a word.

"We're still on for the weekend, right?" Garrett asks, following me to the door. "You're not gonna bail on me to woo the lovely Bella?"

"I promised you we'd do one more race before you're housebound. I'm not bailing."

"Cool. We'll leave Friday? Right after closing?"

"Sounds like a plan."

"And you're still on for tomorrow night?"

"Right," I say, snapping my fingers at him. "The Open House. Six o'clock?"

"Deal. See you tomorrow, dude."

I'm passing through the parents' lounge, making my way toward the back door when my phone finally rings. I juggle my keys, my phone, my sunglasses and the handful of pamphlets I'm carrying, but my hands are shaking so badly I end up dropping everything _except_ my cellphone, the only important thing in the universe right now.

"Hello?" I say, catching it on the third ring.

"Edward? Is that you?"

"West-End." The air rushes out of my lungs in a grateful whoosh. "Yes, it's me. How are you? I've been waiting for your call."

"Are you okay?"

"I am now," I say, sinking into a chair at one of the café tables and telling myself for the millionth time to rein in my emotions. Talk about transparent. I might as well hand my heart to her on a platter, along with a razor, in case she'd care to slice it to smithereens. "How's your day going? Carlie get off to school all right this morning?'

"She's fine. I mean, I assume she's fine. I guess I'll know when she gets home from school. Listen, I really need to see you."

"I thought I was the desperate one," I say, once again slapping my heart on my sleeve like a damn fool. She laughs a little, but it's a reluctant sounding laugh. "Is everything all right, West-End?"

"I need to see you, that's all. We need to talk about something."

Oh shit. Cold feet already? I'm coming on way too strong. Scaring her away.

"Did you get the flower?" I ask her, closing my eyes as I wait for her answer.

"Yes, I'm sorry, I should have mentioned it. That was a beautiful gesture, Edward. Just what I needed. Thanks for being so thoughtful."

Okay, that doesn't sound like cold feet. Maybe she wants to see me for the same reason I want to see her. Because one day wasn't nearly enough.

"I'm glad you liked it. I couldn't resist. So about getting together, what are you thinking? When we compared schedules last night, the week sounded a bit mental."

"I don't know." She sighs. "You're off in an hour, right? I have an appointment from three to three-thirty, but then I thought we could meet somewhere for a coffee. It won't be a long visit. I have to get home to make Carlie dinner then take her to her horseback riding lesson at six-thirty. I just really need to see you."

She sounds so plaintive. Now I'm cursing Rose for tying up my afternoon.

"This sucks, but I can't make it anywhere by four. I have to take my nephew to his rep volleyball tryout after school from three-thirty to five."

"Hmm. Okay. Well, what about this? Carlie's riding lesson is at Cedar Mills Stables on Kennedy. It's an hour and a half long. I could sneak out and meet you at the Second Cup on McCowan, if you felt up to making the drive to Markham."

_Or I could head over to your house at nine_, I think, but I dare not suggest it. Talk about coming on too strong.

"I'd love to meet you for coffee," I say. "Quarter to seven sound okay?"

"Perfect," she says. Something about the way she says that one word conjures up an image of her closing her eyes and sighing with relief, like she just won't make it through the day without seeing me. Perhaps I'm imagining things. Or maybe I'm simply hoping she feels exactly the way I do right this very second.

X-X-X

At twenty to seven I'm leaning against my car in the Second Cup parking lot, gnawing at a piece of gum and drumming my hands on my thighs anxiously. By seven o'clock I'm pacing and checking my phone every thirty seconds, wondering if I've come to the wrong place. Finally, at a few minutes past seven, Bella's blue Cadillac CTS pulls into the parking lot. I quickly toss my gum into the nearby bushes, watching as she takes the spot beside my SUV. She jumps out of the car looking harried and apologetic.

"I'm so sorry," she says, slamming her door. "I forgot I needed to renew Carlie's lessons tonight. I had to pay for her next ten sessions before she was able to ride."

"Don't worry. You're here now. It's all good." I pull her into my arms, smiling when I feel her body soften against mine. "Okay, I lied. _Now _it's all good."

"Mmm," she sighs against my neck, "you're right."

Any worries I had about her feelings not matching mine go up in smoke the second she turns her face, seeking my lips with her own. The rush of nostalgia when I feel her tongue against mine almost takes me out at the knees. Just like yesterday, I'm transported back in time. All I want to do is find a quiet, private place where we can be alone. Her place would be just about ideal.

"So do you want to go in and grab a coffee, or do you want to stay out here and neck for a while longer?" I ask her, once I'm finally able to tear myself away from her lips. I take both of her hands in mine, grinning at her. She smiles a little, but it's not the most convincing smile I've ever seen. "Bella, don't take this the wrong way, but you look a little wiped. Is everything all right?"

"Would you think it was weird if I said I wanted to sit in your car and talk?"

"You don't want…?" I vaguely gesture to the coffee shop behind us, but she shakes her head.

"I never drink coffee at night anyway. I'd rather stay out here if it's all the same to you."

"Okay, sure."

I reach for the passenger door handle, ready to help her climb in. She stops my hand.

"Can we sit in the back instead?"

I'm about to make a suggestive remark, but something in her expression stops me.

"Yeah, sure. Of course."

We slide into the backseat, and as soon as I've closed the door and settled in, she reaches for my hand.

"I have to tell you something," she says. "It's not pleasant."

My mind starts to race. Now I'm wondering if her apparent happiness to see me is a false front, her attempt to soften me up before bringing down the hammer.

_I've been thinking…_

_This isn't going to work for me..._

_We were wrong to think we could make a go of this…_

Shit.

"There's no point beating about the bush, so I'm going to come right out with it."

"Please do," I say, bracing myself for her next words.

"Okay. Mike, my ex, he has cancer. I found out last night. A brain tumor."

"Wait…what?"

I must look like I've been hit on the back of the head with a shovel. What she just said is so far from what I was expecting.

"Jesus." I blink a couple of times, waiting for the information to sink in. "How long…I mean…what's the prognosis? Is he getting treatment?"

"He's having surgery next week. The goal is to remove the entire tumor. Of course they won't know if that's possible until they see what they're dealing with."

"What day next week?"

"Friday."

"Friday." I nod, mulling this information over. Her birthday is next Thursday. I'd been hoping I might be able to take her out for dinner. I have a funny feeling that won't be happening. No doubt her birthday celebrations are the least of her concerns right now. "What can I do? Is there some way I can help?"

She doesn't answer. Instead, her chin quivers and she brings her hands to her face.

"What is it?" I say, rubbing her arm, completely and utterly at a loss.

"It's nothing," she sniffs. "It's just…you're the first person who's said that. So far everyone else has told me what they _expect_ me to do or asked me what _I _plan to do. It's nice not to have to answer that question."

"Listen, I'll do whatever I can," I say, cajoling her into my arms and pulling her close. "Tell me what to do."

"This is good," she whispers against my neck. "Can we just do this for a while?"

I rub her back and listen to her breathing, my mind racing as I try to sort out the repercussions of her news. Where do we go from here? What does this mean for us? _Is_ there a still an us?

Fuck, now isn't the time for selfishness. Instead of pressing her for more information, I wait for her to collect herself. Finally, she sniffs and dabs her cheeks with the backs of her hands.

"I'm sorry," she says, rolling her eyes at herself.

"Good God, don't worry."

She gives me a weak apologetic smile. "I've been holding it together pretty well so far. I guess I needed a little purge."

"You're trying to be strong for Carlie, huh? How'd she take it? Or doesn't she know yet?"

"Yes, she knows. Mike told her last night. She cried for about three hours. I think I missed the worst of it. She was running out of steam by the time I got home."

"Shit, this all started when we were out?"

"Unfortunate timing."

"No kidding. How about today? She doing better?"

"Today she's just pissed off. Mostly at me, I think."

"At you? Why at you?"

"You can't roll your eyes and swear at cancer, but your mother is an excellent punching bag."

"That hardly seems fair."

"I popped by for a quick visit to my therapist today. She said Carlie's reaction is perfectly normal. We treat the people we love the worst because we can get away with it. I love her, and I love her unconditionally. Nothing she says or does will change that. If she has to rail at someone, I'm a safe target."

"Your therapist sounds pretty awesome."

"She is. But listen, I didn't drag you all this way to discuss my therapist."

"You didn't drag me anywhere. I came quite willingly, trust me."

I lift her chin to kiss her, aiming for a gentle comforting kiss, fully prepared to control my desire to paw at her, to get closer, but then something shifts and she's kissing me back and before I know it, her body is pressed against mine so hard, I'm afraid something might break. Like my spine.

"This is crazy, Bella," I say, against her lips. "We're in the back seat of my car."

"I think I need crazy right now," she whispers, tugging at my hair.

Fuck, how do I argue with that? I don't argue. Instead, I shift our positions until she's on her back and I'm on my side, leaning over her. She holds me in place, her hands threaded through my hair, her lips demanding, one of her legs trapping me as her hips strain toward me. As her thigh rubs across my zipper, I'm seventeen again and in the front seat of Emmett's pick-up, whispering dirty words, telling her all the things I want to do to her. My hands itch to move from the safe spot at the curve of her hip. I want nothing more than to eliminate the barriers between us, ripping off clothes—both hers and mine—so I can touch the soft curves I remember so well.

But this is ridiculous! What am I thinking?

I curl my hands into fists and pull away gently, resting my forehead against hers.

"We're about to give a bunch of Second Cup patrons a hell of a lot more than they bargained for," I say, reluctantly maneuvering myself so I'm sitting up and her head is resting on my legs.

"Sorry," she whispers. "I guess I wanted to forget the rest of the world for a few minutes."

"Hey, I'm happy to help you forget. I just don't think this is the best venue."

"You're right," she says, rubbing at her eyes. There's no denying her exhaustion.

"I want to be here for you," I say, brushing her hair back from her face. "I'm not sure what I can do to help, but anything you need, just let me know, okay?"

She nods, her chin quivering again. "I can't believe the timing of all this. It's like there's a conspiracy against us. Yesterday was so perfect, and then I got home and the bottom fell out."

"Mike's illness doesn't have to come between us. Unless…I mean, you're still interested in spending time together, right?"

"Of course," she says, her voice soft and reassuring. "God forbid Carlie finds out about us right now, though. She'd kill me. I'm sure she'd see our relationship as some sort of pointed attack against her father when he needs us most. Her feelings have to be my number one priority. But I definitely want to keep seeing you. If you still want to…I know the situation isn't ideal."

"Don't even go there. I lost you once, West-End. I don't want to lose you again."

"You won't lose me. I'll try to help him, and of course I have to encourage Carlie to be there for her dad, but we're not about to move back in together or anything. I won't let Mike come between us. I promise. I moved on in my head a long time ago."

"And your heart?" I say, tracing the delicate skin under her eye with my fingertips.

"My heart's had its bags packed for quite a while, as well. Honestly."

"You promise?"

She sits up and curls her hand around the nape of my neck, giving me a long meaningful look. "I promise," she says, before pressing her lips to mine. I pull her close, wrapping my arms around her tightly as I return the kiss, deciding the coffee shop's patrons can kiss my ass. I don't know exactly how long I have left before Bella has to leave to pick up Carlie, but I'll be damned if I'll waste a single second.

... ... ...

**Thanks for reading! Sorry about the delay. Life is cray cray cray. (Yes, you read that right, THREE crays). Hope you're all well. I'm currently in a state of "I die." Led Zeppelin plus DiorRob plus convertible? No words.**

**See you next time.**

**R**

**xo **


	24. Needs

**Chapter 24 - Needs**

**Bella**

* * *

"And how's Carlie's frame of mind going into tomorrow?"

My therapist asks me this as she uncrosses and re-crosses her legs, one of her distinctive moves. I imagine her watching the clock on the shelf over my shoulder and timing her position changes.

_Every ten minutes, re-cross legs. Don't fidget. Don't let patient see you checking the time._

We've been discussing Mike's condition for a while. I'm starting to get antsy so I can only imagine how mind-numbingly bored she must be. Still, this is why she gets paid the big bucks.

"I'm sure Carlie's scared," I say. "She's trying to be brave. I don't know how much of that is posturing."

"Putting on a brave front is natural. I know you think she doesn't care about your feelings right now, but I'm sure she's desperate not to worry you. She might even want you to be proud of how she's coping." I nod, certain there's some truth to her words. "Tomorrow will be a stressful day. Are you going to be at the hospital?" she asks.

"We had a family talk. Mike said having us in a waiting room down the hall all day won't help him any, and it'll just make us basket cases. He'd feel better knowing Carlie was going to school and keeping up with her routine. He's already at the hospital being prepped and having one last CT scan before surgery. We'll swing by to visit him tonight. His sister will stay at the hospital tomorrow and keep us posted."

"That's a very pragmatic approach."

"That's Mike. He's always been so practical."

"And Carlie's under no illusions about the possible outcomes? You've been upfront with her?"

"She's fully aware of the dangers of the surgery. Whatever happens, there'll be stress going forward. Ideally, Mike will make it through the surgery and the surgeon can get the whole tumor. That would be the least complicated outcome. That's what we're praying for, obviously."

"Naturally. And you're looking after yourself?" she says. "Eating properly, exercising, maintaining your own friendships and routines?"

"I'm doing my best. It's not easy putting myself first."

"That was one of the hardest things for you during the divorce, if I recall. You were so concerned about Carlie's well-being that your own needs took a backseat."

I want to laugh at her expression. My needs are still taking a backseat, but not necessarily in the way she thinks. Just the mention of the word _backseat_ brings to mind thoughts of Edward kissing me in the back of the SUV, our "coffee dates" taking place in more and more remote locations, decreasing the chances of drawing unfavourable attention. The more remote our parking spot, the hotter our make-out sessions, though truth be told, we've barely hit second base.

The whole situation is beyond bizarre, but he hasn't complained once, going out of his way to meet me three times in the week and a half since our day-long date, despite the chaos of our schedules. Our backseat dates haven't been ideal, but between his work schedule, the fact that he went away last weekend and the turbulence of my life at the moment, it's been car dates or nothing. While some serious couch-time would be amazing, making out with him in his car isn't without its nostalgic appeal.

"I'm making a concerted effort not to put my life on hold," I say. "I've been seeing that guy. The one I told you about."

"Right, the old high school flame. How's that going?"

"He's incredibly supportive. Very understanding. We're taking things slowly. It's very casual. I'm not ready to spring him on Carlie yet."

"And why's that?"

"I don't want to complicate her life and split her loyalties. Once Mike's condition is stabilized and the future's more certain, I'll revisit telling her."

"Sounds like you've thought everything through. I'm glad you're not shutting people out and that this new man is supportive and compassionate." She uncrosses her legs and leans forward. "So is there anything else you wanted to discuss?"

I glance at my watch. Only five minutes left in my session.

"I don't think so."

"Well, in that case." She snaps her notebook closed and tosses her glasses on the table beside her before crossing to her desk to retrieve a small box. "I know it's your birthday today. I have a feeling you'll be deferring your celebration because of what the next few days might hold. I just wanted to acknowledge the day." She leans over and pops the box open. Inside there's a gourmet cupcake. "Chocolate mocha. I hope that's okay?"

"Dr. Hale. That's perfect Thank you. I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll enjoy it this afternoon with a nice cup of coffee while taking a few moments for yourself."

"Deal," I say, standing and watching as she re-seals the box.

I have a strange urge to hug her. I squash this urge. Hugging her would be weird. She hands me the box and follows me to the door.

"Good luck tomorrow. I'll be thinking of you all. If you need some time next week, give Jeannie a call. We'll fit you in."

And there you have it—the reminder that the time I spend talking to Dr. Rosalie Hale is by appointment only. She's my therapist, not my friend.

I have half a mind to fire her.

X-X-X

If someone had asked me a few weeks ago what I had planned for my birthday, I probably wouldn't have said a hot yoga class, a thirty minute lunch with Alice at Tim Hortons, and a quick session with my therapist, all topped off with a visit to Mount Sinai hospital to see my ex-husband who's having brain surgery tomorrow.

I wouldn't have said that, but that's exactly the way my day has unfolded, and now here I am, sitting in a hospital lounge with my daughter and my ex-sister-in-law as my ex-husband shows off his shaved head and the black dots the surgeons have drawn above his ear.

"I figured I might as well shave it all off," he says, rubbing his hand meditatively across his smooth scalp. "If I end up having chemo, at least I won't have to worry about it falling out. Proactive measures, I guess."

"I like it," Carlie says, trying to smile brightly. "You look like Sting."

"Yeah? He's hot right?" Mike asks her, eliciting an exaggerated eye roll from his daughter.

"Don't be gross. He's old," she says, wrinkling her nose with disgust.

My mind wanders as they banter. I can't help remembering what Carlie said when she first saw Edward's picture. _He's pretty hot for an old guy, Mom._

I spoke to the hot, old guy earlier this afternoon, both of us complaining about the way the next few days will probably unfold. Another weekend shot. Whatever happens tomorrow, I'll need to keep an eye on Carlie, prepared to support her through the upheaval that will inevitably follow her father's surgery. We'll either be planning a funeral, or trying to wrap our heads around an impending course of chemo and radiation treatments.

"We should give Carlie a few minutes alone with her dad, don't you think?" Myra suggests, interrupting my thoughts and embarrassing me with her sensibleness, as usual. Of course Carlie should have some time to talk to Mike without us hovering.

"We'll just wander down to the waiting area at the end of the hall," I say, pulling my purse over my shoulder and giving Carlie's hand a quick squeeze. "Come get us when you're ready."

My journey down the hall with Myra is a quiet one, the silence between us broken by the sounds of random machines pinging and beeping and PA messages requesting this doctor or that nurse to report to some room or another. In the waiting room, we both sigh heavily as we sit.

"I still can't believe this is happening," she says. "I keep thinking I'll wake up and realize it's all been a bad dream."

I look around the waiting room grimly. "This is about as real as it gets."

"He's terrified, you know that, right? He might seem to be coping well, but I know he's worried he won't make it through the surgery tomorrow."

"I'm sure he'll be fine, Myra. This is a world class facility. The surgeons are leaders in their field."

"I hope you're right. If anything happens…" She breaks off, bringing her hand to her eyes. I reach over to rub her back. The woman drives me out of my mind sometimes, but she's clearly beside herself with worry. She takes a big cleansing breath, sniffing back her tears and shaking her head. "No. I won't let myself think that way," she says. "He'll come through it, and then we'll all be here to help him recover. Have you thought any more about what you want to do on weekends?"

"Myra, I can't have this conversation right now. Let's play things by ear, okay?"

"I just think we should have a plan—"

She doesn't get a chance to finish because Carlie appears from around the corner. She's obviously been crying, but she's made an effort to pull herself together.

"He wants to talk to you," she says, sniffling a little and pulling her sleeves over her hands.

"Of course, I'll be right back," Myra says, standing and slipping her jacket over her arm.

"No, not you, Aunt Myra. He wants to talk to my mom." Carlie looks at me and shrugs, while Myra gives us both a stupefied look, slowly lowering herself back into the chair.

I grimace apologetically at Myra and beckon Carlie over to take my seat, giving her a quick hug before making my way back down the hall to the small lounge where Mike sits waiting for me.

"Hey, she okay?" he asks, looking up at me worriedly.

"She'll be fine."

"She's a good kid. I hope all this doesn't mess her up."

"Don't worry about any of that now. One day at a time, okay?"

"Look after her, Bella. Take care of yourself, too. I'm sorry I was such a terrible husband. I took you for granted. You deserved better."

"Mike, please don't do this," I say, swallowing the lump forming in my throat. "It's not the time for recriminations."

"Maybe not. I had to say it, though. You were a great wife and you're an amazing mother. You always put the family's needs before your own. I didn't know how lucky I was."

"Listen, I want you to forget all that for now and focus on getting better. You should get some rest. Tomorrow will be here before you know it."

"Something tells me I won't get much sleep tonight."

"Maybe they can give you something to help you nod off."

He shakes his head. "I think I'd rather stay awake. Enjoy the night."

Don't say _it might be my last_. Please don't…

"Anyway, it's getting late," he says. "I should let you go. I just wanted to make sure you knew how much I appreciate everything you've done for Carlie and me—how much you've given up."

"I know. It's okay, Mike." I stand and pull on my coat. "We'll come and visit on the weekend," I say, leaving no room for what-ifs and maybes. "Myra will call us tomorrow with the details of the surgery."

He nods. "Okay. Sorry about the timing of all this. Your birthday wasn't so great, I guess."

"It's just a day. Another year older."

"Another year older is a good thing," he points out, reaching for my hand. "It's better than the alternative, that's for sure."

He makes a fine point.

I lean over to kiss his cheek, and he turns his face at the last second, catching my mouth in a soft kiss. I keep my lips closed, but I don't dare pull away, guilt dictating my every move. How do you slam a door in someone's face the night before they're about to have potentially life-threatening surgery?

I pat his hand as I stand, striving for a friendly, supportive demeanor. He smiles at me sadly. I don't know why he felt the need to kiss me, but hopefully my reaction told him I don't hate him, I've forgiven whatever negative fallout there was from our marriage, and I want him to live. That's about all I can piece together of my own feelings. There's far too much going on right now for anything to be explained away quickly or easily.

X-X-X

It's been years since I tucked Carlie in, but tonight I sit on the edge of her bed, pulling the blanket up under her chin and brushing her hair back from her forehead.

"Aunt Myra said she asked you if you'd let dad stay with us on weekends if he has to do treatments, and you said no," she says, drawing her thin eyebrows together.

"I wish she hadn't told you that. And I didn't say no. I said _I don't know_. Your dad might not even need treatments."

"Do you think he's gonna die?"

"Good grief, Carlie! No, of course I don't think that. I hope you don't think that."

"Sometimes I do. Cancer sucks."

"It does suck. We need to think positive thoughts for your dad, though, okay?"

"I'll try."

I kiss her forehead and tell her I love her. When I turn in her doorway, reaching back to draw the door closed behind me, she mumbles at me from under the covers.

"Can you leave it open a bit?"

I pull the door almost closed and flick off the hall light before making my way back downstairs. My cellphone sits on the dining room table, its message light blinking in the darkness. It's been chirping away intermittently for the last twenty minutes—Edward's ringtone, the one he uploaded for me so that every time he texts I'll know it's him.

I take my phone into the kitchen where I pour myself a healthy glass of wine, sipping at it while reading Edward's texts, all of them seeking assurances that I'm doing okay and requesting that I call him as soon as I can. I lean against the pantry door, sliding down to the floor as I dial his number, frankly, incapable of holding up my own weight for another second.

"There you are!" he says, answering after two rings. "I've been worried about you. How'd things go at the hospital? How's Mike?"

"About how you'd imagine. Introspective. Scared. I don't really want to talk about it. Is that okay?"

"Of course. I've been texting for a while. I thought you'd get back to me once you got home. But it's been almost half an hour. Is everything all right with Carlie?"

"She's hanging in there. I had to talk her off the ledge a bit. She's in bed now." I pause, processing what he's just said. "Wait. How did you know I've been home for half an hour?"

"Look, I know this is going to seem creepy, but I'm parked down the street. I've been waiting for you to get home. I wanted to see you even if it's only for five minutes. I mean, it's your birthday. I have something for you."

"What? You're here?" My exhaustion suddenly forgotten, I scramble to my feet, rushing to the living room and pulling the curtains open a crack. "I don't see you. Where are you?"

On the other side of the street, about six houses down, a vehicle's lights flicker on and off. Edward's SUV.

"Give me two minutes," I tell him. "I'll be right out."

I take another gulp of my wine and lock my phone, leaving it and my glass on the dining room table. Pushing my feet into my shoes, I pull on a light jacket and quietly open the front door, locking it behind me and making my way across the street, almost running the fifty yards or so to Edward's car before hopping into the passenger seat. I haven't seen him for two days. Words can wait. A kiss can't. He seems amenable to this course of action, leaning as far across the armrest as possible, cradling my head as he kisses me.

I lose myself in the tenderness of his lips and tongue, the feel of his hand sweeping under my hair, amazed again at how right this all seems, grateful—so incredibly grateful that we've found each other.

"I missed you," he whispers.

"I missed you, too."

"You taste delicious. Merlot?"

"Shiraz."

He smiles and brushes his fingers across my cheek. "I've been thinking about you all day. I couldn't stay away. It didn't seem right not to see you and wish you a happy birthday in person."

"I'm glad you're here. This has been the weirdest birthday ever."

"I bet." His eyes dart across the street to the house. "Carlie's in bed?"

I nod. "Whether or not she'll be able to sleep is a different story. I'm sure her mind is racing."

"So I guess me coming inside is out of the question?"

I think about Carlie's open door, imagine her catching me on the couch, making out with Edward on the eve of her father's surgery.

"Probably not a good idea," I say. "There's a plaza at the end of the street. All the stores would be closed by now. I bet the parking lot's deserted."

"Well then. Shall we?" He smiles as he turns the ignition.

As soon as we pull into the parking lot, I'm buzzing with anticipation at the thought of his body pressing against mine. I'm not sure how much longer we can go on like this. The need to be with him is all-encompassing. In a darkened corner of the lot behind the plaza, we hop out of the car and clamber into the backseat. I'm on my back with Edward's lips seeking mine within seconds of the door slamming closed.

The brevity of our stolen moments fuels our impatience. There's no time for dithering. His hand slides up my side and moves to my chest, cupping my breast, his thumb skidding across my nipple. We both gasp.

"God, that feels good," I sigh.

"Fuck. You're not wearing a bra." His groan seems to be simultaneously appreciative and pained.

"It's bed time. I came home and got cozy."

Yoga pants and a T-shirt without a bra are my standard nighttime fare. I can't imagine any woman in the world willingly keeping her bra on until bedtime. Bras are the Devil's handiwork, I'm sure of it.

"Cozy isn't exactly the word that came to my mind," he says, his lips moving to my neck as his hand creeps under my shirt. "You okay with this?" He tickles at my rib cage.

"God, yes, keep going," I say, arching against him and moaning brazenly as he lifts my T-shirt higher and dips down to tease at my nipple with his tongue.

And we're rounding second, folks. I quietly add _Edward sucking on my nipple in the backseat of his car _to the list of things I wouldn't have imagined doing today. Edward's lavish attention to my right breast is quite clearly my favourite item on this list of unexpected events.

"You still have the sweetest tits, West-End," he sighs.

I wriggle and moan again, unable to get my body close enough to his. He's drawing my nipple deeply into his mouth now, breathing erratically through his nose while I pant just as frantically, wondering if it's possible to come from nipple stimulation alone.

Suddenly his hand moves down my body and slips between my legs, no teasing at my knee, no hinting that maybe his fingers might creep up my thigh if I'm lucky. Nope. Just like that, in the blink of an eye, his hand is between my legs, rubbing me through my yoga pants, knocking nipple-sucking off the top of the list of favourite unexpected events of the day. My hips lift off the seat, rocking against his hand, begging for a rhythm to catch hold of. Edward abandons my nipple for a moment, bringing his face close to mine and kissing me softly as his hand stills between my legs.

"No, don't stop," I plead, running my fingers down the tightly corded muscles of his forearm.

A lazy, knowing smile tugs at his mouth. "I guess that answers my question."

"What question?" I say, trying to coax his hand into moving again.

"I was going to ask you if I could give you an orgasm for your birthday."

I could tell him no—I want to wait until we're somewhere comfortable, when the encounter won't feel sneaky and sordid—but I don't. It's been too long. My body is aching for release, of the non-self-administered kind.

"Yes, yes," I say, nodding and wetting my lips. "Please."

He kisses me and then turns his face, bringing his ear to my lips. His fingers move between my legs again, slowly tracing up the seam of my yoga pants. When my breath catches, he stops, his fingers pressing into me.

"Right there?" he says, circling gently.

"Oh, God," I breathe. "Right there."

_Right. Fucking. There.  
_  
"Okay," he says, his voice laced with seduction. "One birthday orgasm, coming right up."

He's still smiling as he moves back down to my nipple, at first capturing the tender peak between his teeth, and then sucking hard on the rise of my breast. I know he's giving me a hickey and the thought makes me ridiculously giddy. That is until his moving fingers eradicate my ability to formulate any thoughts, giddy or otherwise. The way he's able to touch me so perfectly even through my clothes is mind-boggling. Then again, he always did have an uncanny understanding of the way my body worked.

"Oh God, Edward," I say, squeezing his forearm.

_Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't stop. _

"Feel good?" he says, his fingers circling in double time and pushing me irrevocably over the edge.

"Oh fuck, yes!"

"Yeah, that's my girl."

I shudder and arch upwards, closing my eyes and riding the waves of pleasure exploding between my legs. After a quietly blissful moment, I blink up at him, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. **HAVE A MIND-BLOWING ORGASM IN THE BACKSEAT OF EDWARD'S CAR** is flashing in glowing neon lights at the tippy-top of my list of unexpected events.

"Happy birthday, West-End," he whispers, still stroking me gently and grinning like a champ. "I've waited a hell of a long time to see that expression on your face again."

"You have no idea how much I needed that. I think that's my favourite birthday gift ever."

"I can think of a couple of better gifts I'd like to give you, but I guess those will have to wait."

I can't resist reaching down to give him a rub through his jeans. He groans and catches my hand at the wrist.

"Uh-uh. No car jizzing for me."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive," he says, pulling my T-shirt down and helping me sit up. "Trust me, I'll be taking care of that later. Right now I want to hear more about your day." He slips his hand around my shoulder, pulling my legs over his and drawing circles on my shoulder with his fingers.

To anyone else, our ability to jump from chatting, to kissing, to groping and back to talking without batting an eyelash would seem strange, but over the last couple of weeks, it's become our normal. Neither one of us is particularly fazed by the bizarreness of our backseat encounters.

"So did you get some good presents?" he asks me. "Aside from your favourite one, of course."

"A few. I had an appointment with my therapist today. She gave me a gourmet cupcake."

"Really?" He frowns, mulling the idea over.

"You think that's weird?"

"No, it's just…I guess not. What else?"

"Alice gave me a Victoria's Secret gift card."

"I like the sound of that."

"And my friends at yoga chipped in and bought me a gift certificate for a spa day. They said they couldn't think of a better gift than forced relaxation."

"That was nice of them. How about Carlie? Did she get you something?"

"A book. _Microsoft Office for Dummies_."

"Uh-oh. The tutoring isn't going well?"

"She's trying to help me, but she has the patience of a gnat. We've definitely ruled out teaching as a potential career choice. Anyway, that's it for gifts."

"But you haven't seen mine yet."

"Edward, I told you not to get me anything. I hope you didn't go overboard. Just seeing you is present enough."

"I didn't go overboard. It's just a couple of little things," he says, leaning over to retrieve something from the hatchback.

He produces a large bouquet of white roses, protected by cellophane, a delicate pink ribbon tying the bunch together.

"Here," he says, prying the plastic apart. "They smell really good."

"Edward they're beautiful." I lean forward, poking my nose through the plastic. "They do smell good. I love them. Thank you."

"Wait, there's one more thing." He reaches forward, grabbing a CD from the storage compartment between the front seats. He opens the case. Inside there are two CDs. He's taken a sharpie and labeled them as Disc 1 and Disc 2. "This is a new copy of the one I gave you in 1984," he says, pointing to the one on the left.

"_Songs from a Basement in Rosedale_?" I say, smiling sheepishly as I think of that mangled cassette tape.

"Exactly. Except there's a bonus track. It's a surprise."

"Really? I can't wait to give it a listen. What's this one?" I ask him, tapping the other CD.

"It's untitled. I'm just calling it Disc 2 for now."

"Intriguing."

"I think you'll enjoy it. One day," he says, feathering his lips across my cheek, "we'll enjoy it together."

I'm sure we will. In fact, I have no doubt we will.

"These gifts are perfect. Thank you." I lean into him, kissing him tenderly. "Edward, I know I said this was really bad timing, us finding each other again in the midst of all this craziness with Mike, but maybe it's not really bad timing. Maybe it's perfect timing. I forget about everything else when we're together. I think you're just what I need right now."

"I'll be anything you need. Anything at all," he says, smiling and brushing my hair away from my face. "Listen, when this is all over…I mean, not over, but once everything's settled down and Mike's in treatment and whatnot, we'll celebrate your birthday properly, okay? Dinner, dancing, skydiving…whatever the hell you want. We'll do it."

"Skydiving? Can you seriously see me skydiving?"

"Well, sometimes, when I'm feeling mopey, I imagine you skydiving or zip-lining. Sometimes rapelling down the CN Tower. It's good for a laugh."

"I take back what I said about you being supportive. You're incredibly mean and cruel."

"And you're smiling," he says, gently pinching my chin between his thumb and finger. "I'd say my work is done here."

"Get over here, mister," I say, pulling him close and tugging his earlobe with my teeth. "Your work isn't even close to being done."

**... ... ...**

**Thanks for reading. It's been an extra crazy couple of weeks, but your reviews and feedback have been so motivating. Hope you enjoyed.**

**Take good care!**

**R**

**xo**


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